The Last Warden
by bamftastik
Summary: What if the Warden had died during their origin story? What if Alistair found himself alone, facing the task of uniting Ferelden against the Blight? How would things differ? What would happen to the others?
1. Prologue

Aedan Cousland felt the sword slip from his fingers as he fell to his knees. Above him the man grunted, pulling his own blade free. Beneath Aedan's arm it had slipped, striking deep and true where the armor was weakest. And still the man was hidden beneath his helm, a nameless, faceless servant of Arl Howe. Vengeance… there should be… vengeance. As he sank beside the already still figure of his father, Aedan could only hope that Fergus was still alive to take it.

Lunging aside, Duran Aeducan narrowly escaped the ogre's charge. But he turned quick, leaping, blade digging into the creature's thigh. Up he forced himself, stabbing again and again, taking it in gut and chest and throat. It fell beneath him, sending him stumbling as it crashed to the ground. Behlen. Even as he bent to catch his breath, the thought quickened him. There was no escape from the Deep Roads but perhaps he could still see justice done. He did not hear it as it slipped behind him, its shriek piercing. Pain then, the claws taking him cross the belly, his wondering fingers touching there, blinking at the blood as he collapsed.

Theron Mahariel stared up at the canvas above him. Strange, this place, the aravel not his own. How he had come to be here, how long it had been, he could not say. But he could remember the look on Keeper Marethari's face; the sickness was unlike anything they had ever seen. And so he had slept. But soon enough they would come again and he would ask them to bear him from this place. He would tell them that he wished to die beneath the trees.

This had been a fool's errand. Struggling onto an elbow, Daylen Amnell stared into the mists. Where they had come from he could not say, what may be lurking there unseen he almost feared to. She stirred beside him, the elf, Neria Surana. Her jaw hung slack, broken, but still she held his gaze, slowly shaking her head. He had not even caught a glimpse of whatever had attacked them, but Jowan had fled quick enough. Jowan. As the mists thickened round them, he took Surana's hand.

So. It had come to this. The tunnels had seemed unending, Beraht's underlings swarming out of every crack, from beneath every stone. But Natia Brosca had cut them down. She paused now, the chamber opening bright and cool, the dwarf at its center smirking to see her there. Still there were so many, so many left between her and him. Again she took up the dance, caring nothing for the weight of them against her blades, for the sting of their blood in her eyes. But more and more they came, always more. As the gash opened behind her knee she stumbled, blinking up at that still-smiling face as Beraht drove his own blade home.

Kallian Tabris let her eyes fall shut, listening to the deep and sucking sounds of her own breath. Already it was straining, thin and wheezing. But still she could feel their hands. She had killed many humans this day, but Vaughan's guards… they had been too many, too strong… And that smiling human lord was on her now, driving deeper even as his hands closed round her throat. Dizziness now… light breaking behind her eyes… She could no longer feel his touch.

* * *

Alistair stood beside the waving reeds, staring out at the darkening swamp. Something was… wrong. Loghain had betrayed his king, left hundreds of men to die. The Grey Wardens were dead to a man and he – _he!_ – had been the only one unfortunate enough to survive. And Duncan… Duncan had remained at the king's side, just as he had been these many months. Duncan had… Duncan had died. And yet there was something else, something that rankled still…

"This… this isn't right."

Behind him Morrigan snorted. He had not expected… when he and Jory and Daveth had met the woman in the woods that day… But she had saved him, she and her mother. He, the last Warden.

The old woman stood beside him, narrowing her eyes as she gazed across the waters. "And what will you do now?"


	2. Lothering

"What is it that you find so interesting, I wonder."

"What?"

"Your navel. Is it lined with gold? Perhaps it whistles a tune that only you can hear? You've certainly been staring at it long enough to—"

"—Shut up. And didn't you agree to be my _silent_ guide?"

Morrigan stepped round him, blocking the path. "Indeed. But I did _not_ agree to play nursemaid to a sniveling boy."

Slowly Alistair raised his eyes. "Go then."

Folding her arms, the witch snorted. "Whatever the reason, Mother thinks your cause an important one. I shall stay with you. For now."

"Great. I'm thrilled. Really."

It echoed up the path behind her, the howl rising just around the bend. There were other sounds too now, the clash of steel, the guttural cries of darkspawn. Alistair took off at a run. Better darkspawn than that glare.

Rounding the bend, he skidded to a stop. Already the creatures had fallen, half a dozen of them. And at their center it hunched, bending low to rip a stringy mouthful of flesh from the hurlock's throat. It raised its head, meeting his eyes with a rumbling growl.

"Maker's breath…"

Morrigan stopped behind him. "It's a dog."

"Not just a dog, a _mabari_. A war dog. There were some at Ostagar." Squatting, he held out a hand.

The mabari, though, crouched low, pulling back its still wet lips to snarl.

"Well, it's obviously feral. And rather fond of darkspawn flesh, it would seem. Leave it be."

"I wonder what happened to its master. Imprinting, they call it. A mabari will bind itself to one person and one person only, the person they are… meant to be with." He stood, shaking his head.

"Well, that's obviously not you. Let us be on with it."

The dog seemed to watch him as he backed away, deep, dark eyes unsettlingly still. It turned quick, disappearing back into the bushes.

Already the walls loomed ahead, ruined, broken. As they mounted the crumbling steps there, he shook his head. The town was no more than a few sagging wooden structures, far outnumbered by the tents and lean-tos ringing it round.

"Refugees… so many…"

"Quaint, isn't it?"

"Are you still talking? I swear I heard someone talking."

Snorting, the witch stepped in front of him again. "I was asked to bring you to Lothering and this I have done. Which begs the question: What now?"

"Now?"

"Yes. Your Grey Warden treaties, this army that you seek to raise. Where do we go from here?"

Alistair ran a hand through his hair. "I was thinking… Redcliff, I guess?"

"Oh, thinking. How novel."

"Arl Eamon will be there. He… well, he raised me. He'll know what to do."

"You mean he'll let you hide under his skirts"

"Shut up. How should I know what to do?"

"Because you are a Grey Warden. The very last, so they say." She smirked. "The hope of all Ferelden."

"Yes… well… I never wanted to be."

"And I'm sure the archdemon will be _glad_ to hear it. 'Right then, I'll just pack up my Blight and go. Sorry for the misunderstanding.'"

Turning again toward the town, he glared over his shoulder. "You could learn to be a little nicer."

"And you could learn to be a lot of things. But wishing will not make it so."

There were crops here, planted just beyond the town, but they were withered and dry, the shriveled vines picked clean. This town couldn't support this many people. Already their arrival was marked, the watchful eyes of the harried guards, the hopeful stares of beggars. Alistair shuddered.

"Where to?"

"You would _appear_ to be the leader."

He sighed. "There must be… an inn? News? Maybe a place to rest?"

"If you like."

They found the building easily enough, the crowd pressed close inside and out. But there would be no rooms here, no food to spare. Moving through the press, Alistair felt a hand fall heavy on his shoulder.

"Look here, boys. Weren't we just asking after a Grey Warden of this very description?"

He turned quick, hand going to his sword. "You're mistaken."

"Right. You don't look like much of a king killer. Doesn't matter, though."

"'King killer?'"

"S'right. I'm sure the townsfolk here would love to see some of that bounty on your head but let's just say Loghain was hoping we might deliver a more… personal touch."

"But the Wardens – we didn't. It was _Loghain_!"

Behind him, Morrigan snorted. "You're truly surprised?"

The man unsheathed his sword with a slithering hiss. "Traitorous words from a traitor's tongue."

"Gentlemen. There is no need for violence." The woman moved between them, slowly raising her bowed head. A Chantry sister. They wouldn't dare…

But still the man stepped forward. "Out of the way, sister. You protect these traitors, you'll get the same as them."

There was something of a grin as the woman straightened, hands going to her belt. Alistair barely had time to register the blades tucked at her back before she ducked between two of the men. His own sword was drawn as he heard Morrigan curse, the air crystallizing round the limbs of their leader.

It was over soon enough, the other patrons turning pointedly away. Only the barman spared a glare for the mess.

"Um… thank you? Sister."

Still she smiled, sheathing her blades. "Leliana. And you are Grey Wardens."

"_He_ is. Apparently."

"Right. Leliana. Well thanks for the, y'know, stabbity business but we were, ah, just leaving."

"And I'm going with you."

He blinked at that. "Why?"

Her chuckle was bitter. "I had a vision…"

"And – let me guess – this vision told you to… help us?"

"Not exactly." Something passed behind her eyes. "I dreamed that I stood atop a high peak. There was darkness all around me. I took a step, knowing that there should be ground beneath my feet… but there wasn't. And I fell."

"How do you know it wasn't just a dream?"

She sighed, hair falling cross her brow as she turned away. "When I awoke the next morning I went into the Chantry gardens. It was cool still, but spring was on its way… should have been… But they were dead, the roses. All of them blackened, withered, as though the Blight had already come."

"Well that's comforting."

Slowly, she raised her eyes. "It's not meant to be."

"Then why come here? Why help us? Why bother?"

"You will be there at the end; that much I know. And I would rather go down fighting."

Even Morrigan was watching now, holding the woman's eye.

Looking between them Alistair sighed. "Why not."

Once outside he traded what coin they had for meager and overpriced provisions. The sister had not said another word, but it was clear that whatever she had seen weighed heavy on her mind. She might have been pretty, he suspected, but there was nothing of that smirking battle smile, only a tired, plodding heaviness. Morrigan, at least, seemed to stir, nodding impatiently to the ruins of the road beyond the town.

But still there were beggars, refugees…

"Shouldn't we… help them?"

Morrigan sneered. "Help them? And what would you propose to do _exactly_?"

"I… I don't know."

Leliana seemed to be following his gaze, though there was something wistful, bitter there. "We can only pray that the Maker will help them."

"Right."

"Helping every orphan and beggar and wayward trader will not stop the Blight."

"Yes, yes, okay. You're right. Let's just… let's just go."

Beyond the buildings the tents sprang up again, but one of the gardens seemed to be given a rather large berth. There was a cage there, hanging at the center of the field.

As they approached, Leliana shook her head. "They say he killed a family. Before the templars caught him. They say he's to be left for the darkspawn."

The man inside came to his feet. Tall and wide as he was, there was barely room for him to bend his legs behind the bars, but still he stood, straight and proud and scowling.

"A qunari." Even Morrigan sounded surprised.

"What's a qunari?"

The voice was a deep and growling rumble. "If you do not know, that is your failing, not mine."

"Riight. Yours would apparently be killing people."

The man snorted. "I do not deny it."

"Then why—?"

"It is what I do. I am of the Beresaad. A warrior. And you are the Grey Warden."

"How do you—?"

"These people, they speak. I have not much to do but listen."

Blinking up at the man, Alistair shook his head. His eyes strayed to Morrigan, to Leliana. "He's going to be left for the darkspawn?"

Her eyes narrowed as she nodded. "Though… whatever he has done, it just doesn't seem… no one deserves that."

The growl might have passed for agreement, maybe even thanks.

"Look, Bere— qunari… um… you say you're a warrior?"

"I am."

"And you know that I'm a Grey Warden and I… well, as such… you know there's a Blight and I…"

"If you are attempting to ask for my sword you have obviously forgotten the small matter of these bars. My sentence is death."

Behind him he could hear Leliana sigh.

"As is ours… apparently. If I could get you out of the cage…?"

"Then my sword you would have."

Alistair turned to Leliana. "You say the templars put him here?"

She nodded. "The Revered Mother would have the key. I'll go and get it."

"That's… convenient." He quirked a brow at Morrigan but she only turned away.

The sister returned soon enough, swinging wide the door as the big man squeezed through. He took a moment to stretch, rolling his head between his shoulders. Somehow he seemed taller on the ground, glaring down expressionless.

Alistair tried a smile, turning instead to Leliana and Morrigan. "Well aren't we a merry band." He sighed. "Right. Let's just… go before we attract any other help."

The crumbling stairs rose again beyond the town, curving upward to meet the ruined road. He heard the screams before they had crested the main highway, drawing his sword as he leapt the last of the stairs.

There was a wagon there, crates and barrels scattered and broken. One of the large darkspawn – an alpha, he thought – had a dwarf pinned low, a pair on genlocks snaking amongst the ruins of the wagon. Alistiar took the first through the gut, staggering as the big qunari pushed him aside to charge the alpha. But Morrigan was already closing the air around it, smirking as Leliana drew her blades.

It was over quick enough.

"That was… well… go team?"

He was met by three flat stares.

"Right. Well we—"

It rose behind him, the keening whimper fading beneath the pained moan. The dwarf had been able to retreat to the safety of the wreckage, but there he had fallen, the wound across his belly wide and deep. Another, younger, bald and clean shaven, was rocking him there, stiffing behind a growing whine.

Alistair crouched, holding out a hesitant hand. "Hey…"

The older dwarf smiled through reddened lips. "Thank you." His fingers curled round the other's arm, eyes sliding glazed. "My boy…"

He did wail then, rocking still. But he did not start as Alistair lay a hand on his shoulder. Those eyes held his, wide and deep and watering. "Enchantment?"

"If he's asking if I can heal him, I cannot."

Alistair turned to Morrigan with a glare. The dwarf, too, seemed to notice her then, glancing up with an oddly chipper "hullo!"

"Oh, lovely."

As Alistair came to his feet, those eyes followed. "Enchantment?"

"I suppose… I suppose we'll take him with us."

"Ha!" Morrigan turned away with a bitter laugh. "Yes, let's do that."

Sten had come to stand beside her, fixing Alistair with that same, eternal glare. "No."

"But he's just a boy."

"We have no time for children and simpletons." She snorted. "And yet we keep _you_…"

"We could at least take him to the Chantry."

Leliana nodded at that, but already the qunari was moving up the road.

"Hey! Hey! I'm in charge here!"

The man glared over his shoulder, but made no move to turn round. "For now."

After a moment Morrigan followed and then, with a sympathetic shake of her head, Leliana did the same. When Alistair turned round again, the old dwarf remained, but the younger had disappeared. Bending low, he closed the stranger's eyes, turning to follow those he was meant to lead.

His eyes lighted on it there, just beyond the road, the vine snaking up and round the ruins. Mindful of the thorns, he stepped closer, his fingers hesitating. A single rose, blackened and withered as in the sister's dream. As Alistair stroked the brittle petals, it crumbled to ash.


	3. Redcliff

"The Blight. How will you end it?"

"Excuse me?"

Sten hunched beneath his cloak, moving round the fire to where Alistair stirred the last of the dried lamb into a small pot. The big man seemed unbothered by the rain, unending as it had been these past few days. Alistair's own cloak was pulled well over his head, doing what little it could to warm him and protect the meager flames.

"The Blight. What is your plan?"

"Oh, you know. I thought we'd tap the archdemon on the shoulder and ask it to leave. Perhaps we could invite it to tea, give it a few cakes, explain the situation and send it on its way."

"If you hope to slay the archdemon with wit, you may want to arm yourself first." The big man sighed. "We go west. These treaties of yours will oblige the mages to aid us. Unfortunate, but I understand the need. Yet the tower lies almost directly to the north of us now and we make no move to change our course."

Alistair stood. "That's because we're not going to the tower. We're going to Redcliff."

"To seek the aid of a sick, old man whose loyalties may yet be suspect."

Word had reached them as they drew near. The Arl had fallen ill, sent his knights out seeking a cure. But the news was weeks old, with none coming since. Their progress toward the town had been slow, but the strange unease had steadily increased.

"The Arl will help us; I'm sure of it."

"And you would choose one man over entire races sworn to your banner. There is no time for petty personal attachments. "

"We'll go to the others next, get them too."

"We do not have the time. Gather the promised strength. End this quickly."

Still the rain beat heavy against his hood as he peered up at the big man. "I'm the Grey Warden, you know. The only one who can stop the Blight."

"So you say. But the reason for this is unclear. Perhaps if I need only carry your head when I face the archdemon…"

"Hey!" Alistair's boot sank into a puddle as he stepped backward.

The big man stepped closer. "Draw your weapon."

"What?"

"Draw your weapon. If I am to fight at your side, I would see what you can do." He shrugged off his cloak, letting it fall into the mud.

"You _have_ fought at my side."

"And what I have seen does not comfort me." His hand moved to the battered greatsword at his back.

"No… This is stupid."

The qunari's eyes narrowed.

"Okay – hey! – not what I meant. But we're supposed to be fighting _darkspawn_, remember? Not each other."

Drawing the blade, he advanced, still apparently unbothered by the rain. As he moved round the fire, Alistair's cloak caught beneath his feet, sending him toppling backward.

Sten scowled down at him, lowering the blade with a snort.

"So what? You want to lead? You think you could do better?"

"Yes."

"Well… well you can't!" Alistair struggled to his feet, feebly attempting to wipe the mud from his legs.

Sten growled.

"And how do you know where we are anyway? I haven't seen you with a map."

The hesitation was brief, but there. "I am… familiar with these roads. My men and I… traveled near here."

"Was that before or after you slaughtered an innocent family?"

"Before."

"Great. Don't suppose you want to explain that yet?"

"There is nothing to explain. I awoke to find them all slaughtered, the _karashok_, my sword gone from my hand. The farmers tended me, but could not tell me its location."

"They hadn't seen your _sword_? So they deserved to die?"

He shook his head with a heavy sigh.

"And this was… around here."

"On the shores of your Lake Calenhad."

Alistair blinked at that, smirk coming crooked. "Wait. You don't want to go to the mages… You want to go look for your damn sword."

"You do not understand—"

"—Oh, I think I do. What was that about putting the Blight first? About their being no time for… petty personal attachments?"

Sten's scowl deepened.

"Look." Alistair stepped closer, meeting the larger man's eyes. "You promise not to – I don't know – chop me in two when I'm not looking or something, and I promise we'll find your sword. We can even take the coast road round from Redcliff."

The qunari's eyes narrowed. After a moment, he nodded, lips twitching. "I will wait until you are looking then."

"Riiight. Close enough."

"For now." With that the he turned and disappeared amongst the trees.

Still the fire sputtered, but Leliana had slipped from her tent, bending low to blow across the dying embers. She, too, was deeply hooded, the rain falling in rivulets as she raised her eyes to his. As Alistair crouched beside her, she quirked a brow at his mud-soaked gear.

"What was that about?"

He shook his head, running fingers through his wet and ruffled hair. "Just talking."

She watched him for a long moment, sighing as he shifted uncomfortably. "You are doing a good job, you know."

"Yeah. Right."

"Really. It must be… difficult for you. It would be difficult for anyone." She turned her gaze back to the flames. "Before the Chantry… when I was a bard, I loved to tell stories. Beautiful stories, stories of love, stories of heroism. But it is only recently that I realized that, even in the most beautiful tales – especially in the most beautiful tales – there is no solace for the hero. There is always a price."

The eyes that met his were narrow, cold, but it was the fingers curling unexpected against his arm that caused him to blink. Clammy, trembling, but there was warmth there too.

"Uh… here." He slipped away, retrieving the pot from the flames. "I made… was making stew." But he had left it there, let it fill with rain water.

Leliana leaned over his shoulder.

"Sorry."

"I cannot be worse than last night's – what did you say it was? - _'lamb'_?" She smirked.

"You know, you only smile when you're killing things… or making fun of me."

She chuckled, dipping the ladle into the pot and taking an exaggeratedly timid sip. They sat for a time, huddled against the rain, passing the spoon between them.

"Maybe it's… you know… the words that are important. The ending might not be happy, but you said the story's still beautiful. Maybe that's what matters…" Alistair shrugged.

Again she watched him with that long, cool stare. "Maybe."

"Would you tell me a story if I asked? Maybe play us a song?"

Whatever had been playing behind her lips disappeared, expression hardening. "What would you like?"

"Something… I don't know… hopeful? I mean, since Ostagar…"

"You lost a lot there, didn't you?"

"More than I realized, I think."

Slowly, she shook her head. "There is a song, meant to bring comfort to the grieving, the promise of light in times of darkness…"

"Yeah?"

She held his gaze as she rose, pulling her hood low against the rain. There she paused, blinking down at him. "Forgive me if I don't much feel like singing it right now." She turned quick, disappearing back into her tent.

* * *

The rain had mercifully slackened during the afternoon but the sun had come hazy, already slipping well below its peak by the time they reached the first of the sloping hills. Away across the lake the castle rose, the path winding slow down into the valley and the town below. As they passed the first of the outlying farms, a man came running up the path.

He paused breathless, resting hands on his knees as he bent to collect the words. "Thank the Maker you've come!"

Alistair blinked, glancing back at his companions. Only Leliana shrugged. "You were… expecting us?"

The man straightened at that, face falling. There were deep lines there despite his relative youth, his eyes deep and dark and ringed. He looked as though he hadn't slept in weeks. "You haven't come to help?"

"I'm looking for Arl Eamon. I need to speak with him."

He laughed, the sound rising ragged, almost maddened. "In the castle, but there's been no one… no word in days."

Behind him, Morrigan snorted. "Problems of their own, I see?"

He could feel Sten shift. "I am hardly surprised."

"You'll… you'll be wanting Bann Teagan. He's in the Chantry."

"Teagan? Bann Teagan is here?"

The man nodded. "Just… come. Come and see."

There was no argument as Alistair followed the man cross the bridge and down the winding path. Morrigan made her disapproval known with scowls and sighs as she glared round at the simple, hillside buildings. Sten said nothing. Leliana fell in beside him with a quietly encouraging nod.

It had been years, his boyhood memories faded, but he certainly did not remember barricades in the Chantry square, archers practicing on the steps. Some of the fortifications seemed to have collapsed, men scurrying there to make repairs and sharpen new stakes. A few looked up as they passed, hope and distrust flickering in equal measure.

But, save these few, the town was silent. No women. No children.

"Oh, such a _charming_ little village."

With a glare for the witch, Alistair pushed through the Chantry doors. The light was dim here, the candles unlit, what little light there was slipping between the boards nailed cross the windows. It seemed as though the entire town had gathered inside, huddling against the walls, children clutched and crying, pallets strewn across the floor to hold the wounded.

"What happened here?"

The scout was already ahead of them. "Bann Teagan. Visitors."

He stood before the altar, tall, lean, his armor recently patched but finer than that of the men outside. Turning at the voice, he blinked, stopping Alistair short.

Teagan was older than he remembered of course, the first hints of grey showing in his beard, in the small braid tucked behind his ear. But the growing smile was familiar, the light in that eye wondering.

"Alistair? Is that you?"

"Teagan?"

The left side of his face was marred by a long scar, fresh and pink and angry beneath the stitches there. They pulled tight as he smirked, noting Alistair's surprise, hand straying to trace a finger along the patch above his eye. "It is good to see you. If only you had arrived a few days sooner…"

"What-what happened?"

The woman pushed past him with a huff. Old and bent as she was, she grabbed the Bann's arm easily, tilting back his head to examine the wound. "I told you not to touch it!"

He sighed, taking her hands in his with a sheepish smile. "Apologies, Mother. It is healing well enough. Have you met our guests?"

The old woman glanced over her shoulder with a sniff before stalking away.

Teagan ran a hand through his hair. "The Revered Mother does what she can, but they are not healers. We sent word to the Circle Tower, but…" He shook his head. "But you are here now. And in such lovely company."

He grinned as he took Leliana's hand, the scar puckering twisted. There almost something of a bemused smirk on the bard's face but Morrigan only folded her arms. His gaze roamed at last to Sten, faltering as the man growled.

"Bann Teagan, we… we didn't know. But I need to speak to Arl Eamon."

The man snorted. "My brother is ill. At least last we heard. There has been no word from the castle in over a week."

"Nothing? Nothing at all."

There was a laugh there, bitter as it was. "I would not say nothing."

As he explained, Alistair found himself trying to fix the memory of the castle in his mind, those vague images tinged now with a strange and hazy green, echoing with the screams of the dead. Each night they came; each night the townspeople fought only to swell their ranks. And at the center of it all, somehow, was Eamon. The only man who could offer help.

"They took Murdock, the mayor, last night. A good dozen more. Even that bastard Dwyn and his men. They were holed up by the lake, well armed, well stocked. We found the door bashed in this morning, not a soul left."

Again it stirred, that unsettling feeling of… wrongness. Yes, the dead walked, the living falling to join them. Still, as he looked at the face of this man that he had once known, forcing his eyes to hold there… Alistair shuddered.

Teagan sighed. "I would ask for your help, but I'm afraid the sun will be down within the hour. If you would not help us, I suggest you prepare to help yourselves."


	4. Redcliff Castle

Never had he been so glad to see a sunrise. Alistair sank heavy against the Chantry steps, letting the sword slip from his fingers. Still the sky was hazy, the rain threatening, but the light there was unmistakable. The creatures had turned from it, disappearing back into the hills, not routed so much as outlasted. He supposed they should be grateful.

But what of the cost? So few there had been and now there were fewer still. Already the men were dragging their fallen comrades round the side of the Chantry, giving them over to the pyre lest they risk facing them tonight. Already the heat rose prickling, already he had to turn his face from the stench.

Teagan sat beside him. Bloodied and exhausted, he still seemed tense, restless, leaning forward to rest elbows on his knees. "Where is your hound?"

Alistair let his head sink between his shoulders. "It's… not mine."

"But you recognized it, I'm sure."

It had appeared on the hills above, the howl numbing, paralyzing, a terror unlike anything he had ever heard. But their enemies had felt it too. The mabari had torn through them easily, apparently as eager for rotted flesh as for darkspawn blood. Larger than he remembered, its coat was thick and slick and standing on end, but he was sure it was the same. It, too, had disappeared with the coming of the sun.

He nodded. "It was at Ostagar."

"Let us be thankful for small blessings, then." His gaze turned again to the town, straying to the castle above.

Alistair, though, looked again to the pyre, to the wounded being carried up the steps. Leliana had accompanied the sisters into the Chantry. "To pray with them," she had said. Funny, after last night he had almost forgotten that she was almost one of them. Even Morrigan had gone amongst the wounded, doing what she could with herbs and poultices. Her skill at healing was meager at best, but already she had gathered ingredients, brewed a hasty batch of salves. She worked without a word, scowling silent and refusing to meet his eyes. Small blessings indeed.

She came to stand before them now, gaze hardening. Bending, she slipped forceful fingers beneath Teagan's chin, tilting his head upward. "I could attempt to heal it if you wish."

He grabbed her wrist gently, coming to his feet. "You have my thanks, but it's not necessary." He smiled, laying a kiss upon the back of her hand. "And I think it should look quite dashing once it heals."

Morrigan sniffed. "Or perhaps you just don't want an apostate laying hands on you."

Letting her hand fall, Teagan winked. He turned to Alistair then, stiffening as he again glanced cross the lake. "Do your people require more time to rest? Or shall we go now?"

"To the castle?"

He nodded. "Let us end this today."

* * *

The windmill perched high on the hills above the town, the other buildings seeming suddenly so small below. Here, though, here the castle loomed quiet and ominous, just across the gorge. Whatever waited there could take them easily if they attempted to cross the bridge.

Leliana had come to stand beside him, slipping close, too close to the edge. "Hey." He lay a steadying hand on her arm.

She blinked, eyes turning slowly to meet his.

"You're thinking of your dream again?"

She nodded. "It seems I always am, even when I'm awake."

"Trust me, I know the feeling." He followed her gaze to the hill below, to the inn still smoking there. There hadn't been time to quench the flames during the fighting, no time yet to search the wreckage from anyone who might have been holed up inside.

"It just feels… wrong somehow."

Alistair turned, not bothering to hide his surprise. "It does." Slipping his arm through hers, he stepped back from the edge. "But just… don't go jumping off of anything when you're awake, okay? Might need you yet."

There was something soft behind her smirk.

Morrigan, though, stepped round, peering fearlessly over the edge with a snort. Folding her arms, she whirled back to Teagan. "So this secret passage of yours… It seems awfully convenient, does it not?"

He sighed. "I did not tell you because I thought you would take the assault to the castle and I could not abandon the town. But you are right. We need to get to Eamon. We need to—"

_"—Teagan!"_

Alistair felt his eyes pinch shut. He had not heard that voice in years.

"Oh!" She gasped. "Oh Maker! _Teagan_!" Hesitant fingers fluttered at his cheek, trembling tears warring with revulsion as she pursed her lips. Lady Isolde. The Arl's wife.

"Isolde." He smiled down at her, sighing as she turned away from the puckering scar.

"Um… Lady Isolde? Hi. Nice to, erm… see you again."

She whirled, eyes narrowing. "Alistair? What are _you_ doing here?"

Teagan lay a hand on her arm. "He's a Grey Warden, Isolde. He and his friends… they are here to help. But where is Eamon? Connor? How did you get out?"

"Connor! Oh Maker, _Connor_!" She fell against him, still refusing to meet his eye. "_Teagan!_ You _must_ come!"

Behind them, Sten grunted. "This is not helpful."

"She comes from the castle; it stands to reason that she is as cursed as the others. Perhaps we should kill her."

Alistair turned to Morrigan with a sigh. "We're not killing her."

Isolde straightened as he stepped forward, that old glare seeming to give her strength.

"Lady Isolde? What is going on? Where's Eamon? Maybe… maybe we can help."

She shook her head. "Teagan. I need to bring Teagan. _Only Teagan._ That's why… that's why it let me go."

Teagan blinked at that, laying a hand on her arm. "Then I will come."

"But isn't that…?"

"A trap?" He quirked a brow. "Perhaps. But then I will be caught in it, not you. Here. Take my ring, follow the tunnels as we discussed. I do not promise that it will be easy, but with any luck I will see you there."

Dropping the signet ring into Alistair's hand, he turned and followed Isolde toward the bridge.

"Great."

* * *

"Maker's breath! What _was_ that?" It had faded round his blade, seeming to collapse inward, leaving only a pile of empty robes.

"A revenant, I believe." Morrigan leaned on her staff, brushing a stray bit of dust from her hair. "There is something… powerful here. Something that does not wish us to go further."

"But that was… that was… wow!"

"Yes, yes very intriguing. Do you plan to stop and mourn every creature that we dispatch?"

Alistair scowled, mounting the stairs to the castle proper. "Just… shut up." He was tired, he realized, more tired than he could ever remember being. He understood now, the haggard expressions of the townspeople, the flat and dark-rimmed eyes.

There had been more of the creatures in the tunnels below, seeming to swarm endless as they cut their way up and through the castle. They had found only two people alive. The girl had barricaded herself in a storeroom, three of the creatures setting upon her even as they pushed through the door. Too late, again too late. Sten pushed the other up the stairs now, hand still gripping hard to the mage's collar.

They had found him in the dungeon, cowering from the corpses straining against the bars. Jowan had admitted to everything readily enough, blood magic, poisoning the Arl, his affiliation with Loghain. But this was his fault and he was coming with them.

Alistair scowled. "You could have helped, you know."

"Could I? But I thought… you had forbidden me from…"

Behind him, the qunari growled. "This is why mages should be leased." Dragging him roughly up the stairs, he pushed through the doors.

But it was quiet here, no cries, no screams, no rush of the shambling dead. Alistair steadied his shield, slipping forward cautiously. This, this he had not expected.

Teagan twirled once, twice, twisting cross the length of the great hall before dropping into a sweeping bow. A fire roared on the dais at the room's end, outlining a hunched and weeping Isolde, the tiny figure at her side.

"_That_ is the remigold? It's _boring_. Perhaps, Uncle, I should make you put on a dress and try the lady's part."

"Connor, _please_."

The boy's eyes snapped up with a hiss, Teagan sagging like a puppet whose strings had been cut. "And what do we have here _Mother_? More guests?"

"This… this is Alistair, Connor. A Grey Warden. He's here… he's here to help your father."

"To spoil my fun, you mean."

Still he held his shield as they made their way into the room, but Morrigan had quickened her pace, folding her arms beneath a wondering sneer. "So. The boy has become an abomination."

"I told you. The boy has managed to tear the veil." At Sten's shove, Jowan fell to his knees. "It wasn't me."

"Jowan?"

"Lady Isolde, I'm—"

"—Enough!" Connor straightened, Teagan slinking to curl at his feet like a beaten hound. "The Grey Warden will tell me what it is doing here."

"It's… I… your mother spoke the truth. I'm here to help your father."

"But my father _is_ taken care of." One of the boy's hands slipped lingeringly cross his chest, twisting to curl at his hip as he stretched. "_I_ am taking care of him."

"Riiight. Slightly creepy…"

"Silence! Uncle! Guards!"

Teagan moved quick, scooping up his sword from beside the hearth, leaping down the stairs with a wild swing. Alistair got his shield up just in time. Behind him the doors were thrown wide, heavily armored guardsmen pouring through to ring them round. But this came almost easy now, Sten and Leliana and Morrigan taking up their positions at his back. Still, he found himself being cautious, blade spinning in his hand, the flat taking Teagan in the temple. The others were not so lucky.

He stirred as they fell, groaning as Alistair helped him to his feet. Connor was gone.

Rubbing a hand against his head, Teagan smirked. "My thanks." Isolde had come to his side, but he waved her away, gaze hardening. "What did you do?"

Her lip trembled as her eyes widened. "I… Connor, he-he showed the signs. I-I did not want Eamon to know. I brought Jowan here to train him."

"And now he has torn the veil. Well done."

She barely glanced at Morrigan, turning instead to Jowan. "I did not know he was a blood mage! When Eamon fell ill…"

Still the man hunched, but now he raised his eyes. "This is not blood magic. I'm afraid the demon…" He sighed. "The woman spoke true. He has become an abomination."

_"No!"_

"Isolde." Teagan took her gently by the shoulders. "Isolde…"

"But he-he is keeping Eamon alive, I know it! That is… that can't be…"

"Isolde. We will find the Urn. But Connor…" He looked to Alistair. "You. What do you think?"

"Me?" He could feel the other eyes on him now. "I…"

Morrigan snorted. "The boy is an abomination. The choice would seem to be clear." Sten nodded his assent.

It was Leliana who moved to stand beside him, laying a hand on his arm. "There must be another way."

"The Circle! You could go to the Tower, ask them to help!" Isolde whirled now, blinking up at him. _Him._ Why him?

"The Circle. Right. Yeah."

Behind him Sten shifted. "And what will happen here in the meantime?"

"There is… there is another way." Jowan turned, eyes darting nervously. "The demon resides in the Fade, exercises its hold from there. We could… send a mage to face it there… to drive it out. But it would require… blood."

"Blood magic? You want to use _blood magic_?"

"It would save the boy."

"And you think you could do it? Drive it out?"

He shook his head. "I would be the one working the ritual… I couldn't… it would have to be another mage."

Alistair turned slowly. Her arms were folded, scowl perhaps deeper than he had ever seen it. "No."

"What do you mean 'no?'"

"Just as it was said. No."

He found himself striding forward, fingers digging hard against the witch's arm to drag her aside. His whisper came hissed. "How can you—?"

Morrigan sneered, squaring her shoulders. "—Enter the Fade? Place myself in the care of a Blood Mage who has proven both useless and a traitor? Why should I risk myself on a fool's errand? Especially when the fool who leads us doesn't even trust the idea?"

"I-I don't know…"

But she was slipping around him, returning to the others.

He followed hunched, reluctantly meeting Isolde's eyes. "I'm sorry."

She sagged, wailing, but Teagan nodded as he caught her. "You cannot force her to do it if she does not wish to."

Alistair looked to Jowan. "Could you? Force her?"

He shook his head.

"So what… what do we do now?"

Still cradling Isolde, Teagan placed a hand on his shoulder. "He will be upstairs with Eamon. Just… please… make it quick."

* * *

It would haunt him, he knew, the look of resignation on those scarred and twisted features, the echo of the mother's wails. Walking armor, the hiss of rotted ones, the blood pooling in these familiar halls… it blurred, all blurred. Still he held to disbelief. This walk, this path, what awaited him above. Even seeing the boy, his back buckling and changing, the wicked smile, the demon's slithering caress…

Alistair leaned heavy on his sword. Sleeping. It looked like he was sleeping. But the eyes came open now, fixing him with a pleading stare.

"Please…"

He pinched shut his eyes, turning away. The demon had fallen, but still Connor lay before him, still he trembled.

"Please…"

Sten sheathed his sword. "The Blight awaits."

"The boy is an abomination. Do what must be done."

Again Leliana came to his side, shaking her head as he met his eyes. "You… you were a templar. I suppose… I suppose it is only what you were meant to do."

_"No!"_ Isolde came dashing up the hall, kneeling to cradle the boy to her chest. There was hate there, anger, unlike anything that he had ever seen. "You cannot!"

"Don't touch it… it's not…"

_"Connor!"_ She rocked now, glaring as Alistair crouched before her.

"Lady Isolde… don't make this any harder than it has to be…"

_"No!"_ The slap rang out, the sting blooming cross his cheek.

Touching wondering fingers there, Alistair stood. She moved with him, laying the boy back against the bloodied stones, her fists coming wild against his chest. He caught her wrist roughly as she swung for his head. "Please… someone… someone hold her."

_"No!"_

He didn't see who took her from him, pulling her gently but insistently away. The sword was in his hand again, those eyes open, staring, pleading still. There… the chest… rising, falling, peaceful. As he brought the blade down, Alistair turned his eyes away.


	5. Ambushed

Pulling the blade free, he hung his head. The genlock fell heavy, slipping to the bloodied grass. Behind him Sten grunted, cleaving the head from a staggering Hurlock. The ambush had been sloppy, but there had certainly been enough of them. Alistair's laugh was bitter.

"It seems killing children has lent strength to your arm."

He whirled with a growl, leaping the distance to the Qunari as his shield came round. The big man barely had time to duck, bringing his elbow up to take Alistair in the gut. He staggered, giving Sten the opportunity to unsheathe his blade, bringing it round to meet his own.

Still the larger man chuckled. "You see? You have improved."

He wasn't pulling back, he realized, wasn't sparring. But his strokes were wild, the blade rebounding hard off of the Sten's plate. This was… this was… pointless. Alistair staggered back, chest heaving. "Don't."

"None of us relishes what was done." The gaze was piercing, weighing, as he sheathed his blade. "But you must use it. Learn from it."

"You-you were baiting me."

"Yes."

He narrowed his eyes, meeting that stare. After a time, he nodded. "But that can… never. _Never_ again."

Leliana had slipped behind him, but he shrugged away from her hand. "I'm a templar, remember? It's what I was _meant_ to do." He snorted. "But you, _any_ of you… _I'm_ in charge. I need to realize that, need to embrace it. I'll ask for your opinions when - _if_ - I want them. We will find the Urn, heal Arl Eamon, explain… somehow. But that _will not_ happen again."

Sten's eyes narrowed, but there was something almost… impressed there.

"About time, I think. Particularly if it means you will stop acting like an insufferable child."

He whirled on Morrigan with a sneer. "And why don't you stop being such a callous bitch?"

She quirked a brow. "Oh? This from the—"

"—Thank the Maker!"

He spun to see a woman coming up the path ahead, stumbling fast as her legs could carry her. Her dress was frayed and dust-covered, her eyes wide with fear. A refugee perhaps, a traveler or trader…

She skidded to a stop, panting, gaze roaming wild between them. "Please help! The creatures… they took the wagon… my family!"

Alistair held out a hesitant hand. "What-what happened?"

"Please! Please come! Hurry!" She whirled away, darting back up the path without a backward glance.

The road curved ahead, cutting close between a pair of looming hills. Already the sun was dipping low, bathing the cleft in shadow. "Riiight…"

Leliana blinked up at him. "So… trap?"

"Trap."

"And we're going in?"

He shrugged. "We can't exactly go back. And we've dealt with bandits before. And I think… I think I feel the need to kill something."

She smirked. "This new Alistair is… different."

"Yeah." Drawing his sword, he made his way up the path.

It sloped downward as it made its way between the rocks, opening into a narrow clearing. There was a wagon there, broken and raided but months, years, old. Ahead of them the woman waited, turning with a crooked smirk. They moved on the hills above, archers slipping into the open, ringing them round. Too late he realized. The armor and weapons were fine enough, too fine for bandits, the trap well-planned… and ineptly tripped. He could hear Sten growl behind him.

As the woman sneered, a man appeared behind her, running lingering hands over her shoulders. There he leaned, trailing kisses along her neck, but the eyes lit on Alistair, his grin wicked. An elf, well dressed, heavily armed and gloating at his catch.

The blast behind them toppled a tree, cutting off any hope of escape. Alistair barely had time to stumble out of the way as the elf threw back his head to laugh.

"The Grey Warden dies here!"

It came quick, the volley of arrows from above thudding against his upraised shield. Morrigan slipped aside with a grunt, one hand twisting as she thrust her staff into the air. Whatever moisture there had been froze with a snap, sending one of the archers toppling off of the ridge. Sten was making for the other side, climbing the hill in long strides as Leliana let loose with arrows of her own. The elf, it seemed, was for him.

Lightning fast, he moved with a grace that belied skill, experience. No, definitely not bandits. And maybe he was getting too accustomed to fighting darkspawn; his side was left exposed as the other man darted behind him. Alistair grunted in pain, hearing laughter still, seeing only the flash of blades and smiling teeth.

His shield came up with a groan, the blade aimed for his middle. But it was a feint, a distraction. Alistair brought his arm round, catching the elf beneath the chin as he slipped sideways. Skilled or no, he crumpled just the same.

It was only then that he noticed the quiet, the strangled cry as Sten plunged his blade a final time. Already Leliana had slung the bow across her back and was watching him with a quizzical expression.

"Some trap."

"Yeah." Again he looked to the hills, moving to inspect the wagon. Funny, but he didn't even wonder at looting the dead anymore. Supplies were supplies.

"This one still lives." Sten stood glaring down, one boot flicking the limp arm of the unconscious elf. The Qunari reached for his sword.

"Hey! Wait— hold on a moment. We could… erm, question him or something. For information."

"Oh, a _brilliant_ plan." Morrigan rolled her eyes.

"Someone does seem to have gone to an awful lot of trouble—"

"—And considering the events of Ostagar, the answer is obvious, is it not?" She glowered at Leliana, but the other woman held her stare.

Sten had moved away, ripping free a length of rope from the broken wagon. He tossed it to Alistair with a snort. "Get your answers. But quickly."

Alistair crouched, hesitantly twisting the rope between his hands as he blinked down at the sleeping elf. Right. Torture now. Easy enough. Behind him, he could hear Morrigan snort.

"I can do that for you." Leliana knelt beside him, taking the rope from his hands. She slipped it easily beneath the elf's limbs, binding ankles to wrists in a series of intricate but movable knots. Tugging at one, she nodded in satisfaction. "These should hold even if he struggles and cause only a little discomfort."

Alistair straightened. "Why would comfort be an issue when you're tying someone up?"

Leliana and Morrigan both raised a brow.

"Right. Remind me never to ask."

But the elf was already stirring, the slack allowing him to get an elbow beneath him as he shook his head. "Mmm… what?"

Alistair crouched, glancing over his shoulder at Sten's scowl, Morrigan's glower. Only Leliana nodded in encouragement. "Do you know who I am?"

The elf laughed, the sound bubbling thick in his throat. "A strong arm with that shield, or so it would seem." Coughing, he spat blood. "You are one of the Grey Wardens, yes?"

"_The_ Grey Warden, actually. The only one."

"Truly? I was told there would be more. My information is rarely wrong."

Rocking back on his heels Alistair shook his head. "They all died. At Ostagar."

"How lucky for me."

Behind him, Sten growled. "You will get nothing from this one. Finish it quickly."

"Quite the contrary, my friend. If I am to be interrogated, allow me to save us both some time, yes? My name is Zevran… Zev, to my friends. I am a member of the Antivan Crows, brought here for the sole purpose of slaying any surviving Grey Wardens."

Folding his arms, Alistair scowled. "'Antivan Crows?'"

"They are an order of assassins…" Leliana pushed forward to stand at his side. "Very powerful and renowned for always getting the job done."

Alistair snorted. "Apparently not."

She ignored him. "Expensive, too, as I understand. Someone went to great expense to hire this man."

"Who?"

The elf made as if to shrug, despite his bonds. "A rather taciturn fellow in the capital. Loghain, I believe."

Behind him, Alistair could hear Morrigan sigh.

The assassin, though, was looking to Leliana, grin spreading despite the awkward twist of his neck. "So you are a potential… traveling companion, then?"

Her brow rose, but Alistair found himself sliding forward, his boot stirring enough dirt to set the elf to coughing.

"What do you want, exactly?"

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Whether you kill me or the Crows kill me, my life is now forfeit. But perhaps there are other… services that I might offer?'

"Such as?"

"Your alluring comrade was quite correct; dispatching me will not stop another from taking the contract. The Crows will try again. But I happen to know their wily ways. And from what I have heard of the Grey Wardens…" He tsked. "…let us just say that you seem to need all the help you can get."

"Bested you easy enough, didn't I?"

"A lucky shot, I assure you."

"Right."

Turning round he saw Morrigan approaching, scowling still. "Will we be questioning the darkspawn as well now? Bantering with the archdemon?"

"There is nothing wrong with a bit of banter, no?"

"Shut up."

Glaring down at the elf, Morrigan rolled her eyes toward Alistair. "I have heard that men sometimes experience… difficulty in drawing their swords. Do you need assistance?"

"He wants me to let him go."

"Oh yes, of course. Let us listen to what the _assassin_ wants." Turning on her heel, she stalked away. "Kill him and be done with it."

Sten was already making his way up the path. Only Leliana remained at his side, lips pursing wordlessly as she shook her head. Slowly, she too moved away.

Right. Up to him then. Darkspawn, bandits, children… What was one more? As he slipped free the sword, Alistair felt his jaw clench. "You tried to kill me." It was almost an apology.

"A task which I have failed at, sadly." But the assassin shifted, rolling onto his back as best he could, settling his bound arms beneath him. His head tilted as he gazed up at Alistair, something of a smile twisting cross his lips.

The blade was heavy as he brought it round to hang in the air between them, leveled at the elf's chest. Again, he was curled beneath him; again, waiting for him to deliver the final blow. _As it should be_. There was no fear behind the assassin's eyes, only an expectant calm, a sort of… relief. With a last nod for Alistair he breathed deep, letting his eyes fall closed.

"No."

On the hill above, Morrigan hissed. "What?"

"No." His voice was stronger now, the sword lowering to his side. "I said no. Not again."

"_That_ is not a child."

"Obviously."

"But you are still a fool."

Turning back to the elf, he found one eye open, watching him from beneath a crooked brow. Alistair bent quick, rolling him roughly onto his side as he cut the bonds.

Zevran stretched as he rose, the unsettling grin returning as he rubbed at his bruised jaw. After a moment he chuckled, dropping into a flourishing bow. "A wise choice, if I do say so myself. But I am your man, this I swear. You have my oath, until such time as you choose to re—"

"—I don't want your oath." Alistair turned, making his way up the path. "Just… just try to be useful or something. I don't know."

The assassin watched him a moment before following behind, smile faltering as his eyes narrowed.


	6. Lake Calenhad

"I wanted to say that I was sorry… for earlier… for what I said."

Leliana straightened from her packs, eyes narrowing in the firelight. They had made camp just beyond the shores of Lake Calenhad. The Tower loomed light against the darkness of the waters but he had somehow thought it… better not to beg favors of the mages at this hour. Daylight wouldn't make a difference when it came to some of the things that they were capable of, but he certainly wasn't afraid.

She shook her head. "There is no need."

"I-I snapped at you. It's not… it wasn't your fault. I did what I had to. Connor… it was my choice."

With a tired sigh, she moved closer, blinking up at him. "And I do not envy you that. No one here does, I think."

"Except maybe Sten."

She smirked, lips twisting into something of a smile. "Do not let him catch you apologizing."

Alistair chuckled, running a nervous hand through his hair as he shifted. "And there is… well, there is something else. This, actually…" His hand slipped from behind his back, holding the rose delicately to avoid the thorns. It was full, blooming soft and red and real. "I… I found it just beyond the trees there. Thought it… well, I don't know why I picked it really."

Her fingers flexed, stretching toward the petals before curling away. "Alistair…"

"I know… Your dream – err – vision… All the dead roses."

She raised her eyes to his.

"But this one's not… not dead, not yet anyway." He shrugged. "Somehow that just… seemed important. I-I thought I'd give it to you…"

Leliana held his gaze a long moment before laying her hand over his, taking the rose as she rolled the stem between her fingers. Her lips pursed, almost smiling.

"See? And I know it sounds strange but… I think you should smile more. Like… maybe you're supposed to. Weird, I know." He shrugged.

"No… I… Before the vision, before…all this." She gestured round, taking in more than just the camp. "I remember the flowers in Val Royeaux, how they used to bloom in the springtime. Even in the Chantry, I remember when things were… different." She did smile now, though it was twisted, bitter.

He lay a hand on her arm. "Well… I guess it's a start."

"You know, in Orlais, when a man gives a woman a flower…"

"Oh. Right... I think I know where you're—"

"—It means he thinks she is beautiful." There was something mischievous behind her grin, but it softened as she brought the flower to her nose.

"Oh… okay. I mean, yes. Obviously."

The petals fluttered as she laughed, the sound strange but somehow… right. Still it did not last, her face again falling as she shook her head. Her arm brushed against his as she pushed past, hesitating before ducking into her tent. "Goodnight, Alistair."

He stood a moment, lost in thought. But soon enough it set his spine to tingling, the weighing stare of watching eyes. They glinted gold in the firelight, the glare reflecting off of the assassin's dagger as it idly flicked the dirt from beneath his fingernails. He sat against one of the logs, elbow resting on his upraised knee, clucking his tongue as his grin spread wide.

"Poor form, my friend."

"What would you know about it?"

"A good deal indeed." Zevran shifted, sliding over to make room, but Alistair remained standing, keeping both eyes firmly on the elf. "She wants you to follow her."

"What? No she – no she doesn't."

"You think so?" He arched a brow. "Unless you are… unwilling?"

"No… I-I'm not just going to… Why are we talking about this?"

"My advice to you is this, my friend. Take your pleasures where you can find them, while you can."

"Riiight. Like I need romantic advice from a guy who kills people."

Throwing back his head, Zevran laughed. "We all do our share of murdering around here, do we not?"

"You know what I mean. You… you _enjoy_ it."

"Oh? Should I not? There is a certain… satisfaction to taking pleasure in one's work, or so they say." He uncurled slowly, coming to his feet, lithe and lean and graceful. "Don't tell me you do not feel it."

"Do I enjoy _killing people_?" He shook his head. "Absolutely not."

"Or darkspawn, if that is your preference." His eyes shifted over Alistair's shoulder, grin slipping into a smirk as he nodded toward Leliana's tent. "But what is it you _do_ enjoy, I wonder? Obviously not the attentions of our dear Sister."

"Will you just…" He trailed off with a sigh, shaking his head as he shrugged. "Cheese, I guess. And I have this minor obsession with my hair."

Zevran's lip curled. "Truly?"

"Hey."

"Well, I suppose it _is_ a bit…" He chuckled. "Myself, I fancy things that are beautiful, things that are strong…" He stepped closer, grin turning wicked. "Would it offend if I said that I fancied you?"

Alistair blinked. "Wait… wait, are you…?"

Zevran only quirked a brow.

"You tried to kill me!"

Again he laughed, the sound whispered and unsettling. "And seducing you would be a sound tactical choice."

"For killing me?"

"Certainly."

"Great. Right. Good to know."

Zevran tsked. "But I have given you my oath; I am no longer in the business of killing you. You have spared my life, freed me from the Crows. I am your man for so long as you shall have me." He grinned. "And I can think of worse things that fighting at the side of a dashing and deadly Warden such as yourself."

"I thought you weren't trying to seduce me."

"I said that I was not trying to _kill_ you, my friend. Seduction, though, is always a possibility."

"Right. Y'know, what?" Alistair stepped back, folding his arms. "Just don't. Don't give me advice, don't make fun of my hair and don't-don't do… _that_. 'Oh yes, let's bring the _assassin_ along. Let's ask the _assassin_ what he thinks we should do.'"

Zevran's eyes narrowed dangerously. "You judge too quickly, my friend."

"And stop calling me that. I'm not your friend." Already he had turned away, making for his tent. "I'm just the guy who's wondering what in Andraste's name he was thinking bringing you along."

Still he stood, silhouetted against the flames, face hidden in shadow. "And when you are through with me?"

Alistair sighed before ducking beneath the flap. "I don't know. We'll see."

* * *

It rose above the mirrored surface of the waters, rippling reflection stretching almost to the shore. He had been here only once before, as part of his templar training. The Harrowing had been… well, beyond anything they had prepared him for. Squaring his shoulders, Alistair shook his head.

"This is… familiar." Behind him Sten paused, head turning slowly.

"Your sword? You fought darkspawn _here_? So close to the tower?"

His sigh was heavy. "Perhaps."

"Well, we'll talk to the mages; maybe they know something." He nodded to the few sagging buildings clustered near the shore. "And then maybe on the way out we can see if anyone—Hey! Hey, no!"

The big man moved with surprising speed, slipping off the path and into a thicket of toppled columns. Whatever outpost of the tower this had once been, it was now little more than a tight copse of shadows and vines. But there was something else here too, scurrying ahead of the Qunari with a frightened squeak.

Sten grabbed the man by the neck, spinning to pin him against a slab of pitted marble. "_Ashkost say hissra!_"

"Whoa. Hey now." Alistair moved cautiously, coming to stand at the big man's side.

Sten only growled, nodding toward the ground beneath the man's dangling feet. There was a bedroll there, various sack and broken crates, but even in the darkness they glinted. Helmets, breastplates, various unmatched boots and gauntlets, all fine, all… large. But there were no weapons that Alistair could see.

"These things. Are not yours." With a disgusted sneer, he let the man fall.

"Actually, they are." Shaking the hair out of his eyes, he cowered still, but there was a defiant mania behind his eyes. "Bought the rights to this spot, I did. Fair as fair."

"You're a scavenger." Alistair straightened.

"I'm a businessman." He blinked up at Sten. "Man who sold me the spot said something 'bout giants. Said they was all dead, though."

Folding his arms, Sten glowered.

"Was there a sword?" Alistair shook his head. "A… big sword?"

"No swords. But Faryn had already sold off a good deal when I got here. Faryn, that's his name."

"And where is the man now?"

The scavenger seemed to shrink before that whisper. "Said-said he was goin'… to Orzammar, I think."

"Then we go to Orzammar." Sten turned back to the path, stopping short when Alistair put a hand on his arm. He blinked at it a moment, raising his eyes with a rumbling growl.

"We need to speak with the mages first."

"You would face the archdemon with tricks and illusion."

"I would face it with _help_."

His snort might have passed for resignation, but still he shook his head. "I would be of more use with my sword in hand."

"Well, we do have to go to Orzammar, speak with their king. We'll find your sword. You have my word."

"We shall see."

The path sloped downward, forking away from the buildings to open onto a single, narrow dock. Funny, he had remembered there being more boats.

A single templar stood at the pier's end, scowling at them through narrowed eyes. "And where do you think you're going?"

"Where's the ferry?"

"No ferry. Just me. And Knight-Commander Greagior says I'm not to let anyone across."

Morrigan snorted. "Oh, _charming_." There was more of a bite behind the word than usual. It was the first time she had spoken all day, he realized.

Alistair, though, shook his head. "My name is Alistair, of the Grey Wardens. We have need to speak with the First Enchanter."

"Grey Wardens, eh? Prove it."

"What?"

"Prove it. Or I hope you can swim."

Maker's breath, they didn't have time for this. Putting a hand to his forehead, Alistair pinched shut his eyes. "Sten?"

"Yes."

"Can you… I don't know, do something?"

The templar took a suspicious step backward, but the Qunari only scowled a moment before rummaging in his pouches. He paused, raising his eyes in a deliberating stare. With a grunt he straightened, grabbing the templar by the collar and bending him over the pier. Only the man's toes were left to scramble for purchase, the rest of him flailing suspended just above the water's surface. As the waves lapped at his nose, he shuddered.

"All right, all right! I'll take you!"

Sten lifted him with a satisfied nod.

"That-_that_ was your plan?"

His lips almost twitched as he turned to Alistair. "It was effective."

The templar seemed to have recovered himself, though he still refused to meet Sten's eyes. "But… the boat. It's not big enough. Not for all of you."

"How many?"

"I can take… I can take four… besides myself. And you'll have to leave some of your gear."

Alistair opened his mouth to speak, but Morrigan was already making for the shore. "'Tis a pity, but I suppose someone will have to watch the—"

"—Nope. No. You're going. Good try, though."

She turned, eyes narrowing.

"Something's not right. We may need someone with… magic. With skill."

"Flattery now? You do yourself no favors."

He stepped closer, meeting her glare for glare. "How about this then? _You're going_."

"I suppose it would fall to me then, yes? Such a tedious task…" Zevran's eyes strayed to the shore, to the faded sign of the tavern there. "… but I shall manage somehow."

"By running off? No, you're staying where I can keep an eye on you." He sighed, turning instead to Leliana.

"What?" She folded her arms, lips pursing. "No. No. Just because you think you—"

Putting a hand on her shoulder, he steered her toward the end of the pier. "Listen, it's not… it's not what you think. You're the only one I can trust."

Still she scowled. "And so you would leave me behind?"

"The boat can only fit five. And it's just mages. We'll just ask them for help and be right back. We'll be fine."

She quirked a brow.

"Okay, well… probably not." He smirked. "Danger? Certain death? Nothing we can't handle. Just… stay here, okay?"

Zevran had slipped round, retrieving her lute from amongst the gear. Linking a companionable arm through Leliana's he tsked, shaking his head in Alistair's direction. "Come, my dear. Perhaps these Fereldens would be grateful for a song. Show them how it is done."

As the assassin escorted her back toward the shore, Alistair pinched the bridge of his nose. "Great. When did _that_ happen?"

But the others were already piling into the templar's tiny boat. Zevran perched in the prow; Sten carefully took the spot behind, hunching over his pouches and chewing thoughtfully.

"Wait, are you eating something?"

"No."

Sinking heavy on the rear bench, Alistair found himself sitting beside Morrigan. She held tight to her staff, eyes fixed away across the open water.

"So. Scared?"

"Perhaps this craft would move faster if you were to ride beneath it."

He sighed. "Yeah, me too."


	7. The Circle Tower

Alistair stood gazing up at the thick and towering doors with a rising wave of panic. The journey to the tower had been uneventful, even their arrival marked by only a few curious stares. They hadn't been turned away outright; that should count for something, shouldn't it?

But no one had said stopping the Blight would be easy. And the mages, it seemed, were faring no better than anyone else. Knight-Commander Greagoir had looked almost unsurprised to see them, but there would be no answer to the Warden's treaty. What mages might yet live were sealed in the halls beyond the doors, the templar forces standing guard until the Right of Annulment arrived. Right. Those who might have helped them were going to be… purged.

It would be easy enough to wait. Fighting demons and abominations might have been what he was trained for, but he wasn't a templar, not really. The others could perform the Right, sort it out. But they just didn't have the time. They never did. And Greagoir had promised them support if they could help…

Behind him, Morrigan folded her arms. "Do you not find it strange that all of your supposed allies first require us to perform some gruesome task? Have the Grey Wardens always had such helpless friends, I wonder?"

"I have to agree with our bewitching temptress. Our arrival seems rather… well timed, does it not?"

"Step away, elf."

Zevran chuckled. "Mmm… intriguing."

"Enough." Alistair turned, raising his eyes to Sten. "Do you have something to add? Comment? Complaint?... What are you looking at?"

The Qunari was facing away, staring back across the hall. "These mages have an unnatural preoccupation with women holding bowls."

"Right. Very helpful."

The templar on the door was watching them, expression unreadable behind the narrow slits of his helmet. "Are you ready?"

Alistair sighed. "I certainly hope so."

"The Circle Tower" might not have been the most creative of names, but it was certainly apt. As the doors slammed shut behind them, they found themselves in a gently curving hallway with rooms opening to either side. From what he remembered, the path should curve around, leading to the central stairs that would take them to the tower's upper floors. The trouble had seemed to start with a mage named Uldred and that is where Greagoir suspected he would be. Just with – you know – a possible army of demons and abominations between them.

"Are you unwell, my friend?"

He blinked down at the elf. "I'm fine. Wonderful. Fabulous."

"Ahh, such cynicism does little credit to your charms." Already he was moving away, pushing through a splintered door and into the room beyond. This had been the apprentice quarters, perhaps, the rows of cramped beds empty. Glancing round, Zevran bent and began working the lock on one of the toppled footlockers.

"What are you doing?"

"According to your templars, the mages are all either dead or turned into hideous abominations. I do not think anyone will mind."

"We're not robbing the tower!"

Morrigan had slipped past him, bending to gather a stack of scattered papers from the floor. She ran a thoughtful finger along her chin.

"Is it anything useful at least?"

Shrugging, Zevran tossed aside a rusted amulet. Morrigan shook her head.

"Not particularly. But I do remember that Mother's grimoire was confiscated by the templars. Perhaps it is here. Perhaps we might look for it."

"Yeah, we'll get right on that."

He could still feel her glare as he stepped back into the hallway.

There were other rooms here, other passages, the debris of toppled stone and splintered wood thickening as they pushed on. But still it was empty, still there was no sign of…

The light broke as they rounded the bend, Alistair's arm moving to shield his eyes. It was contained, glaring and pulsating and almost… straining in the passage ahead. He almost didn't see the woman, alone and kneeling on the floor beside them. Old she was, back bent beneath the effort, rumpled robes pooling on the ground beneath her. She certainly didn't _look_ like an abomination…

At their approach, she glanced up, lips pulling into something of a tired smile. Slowly, she came to her feet, offering a nod of thanks as Alistair lent her an arm. But when she stood it was straight, tall, hands moving to tame the strands of hair that had escaped her bun. And the eyes… there was nothing sluggish there. In fact, Alistair found himself stiffening, making quick work of straightening his armor.

The old woman laughed. "You are not templars."

"Not exactly, no."

She arched a brow. "I know you. Alistair, isn't it? You were at Ostagar. Duncan's new recruit."

"I'm sorry… I don't…"

"Oh, I doubt you would remember me." She chuckled. "But what business do Grey Wardens have in the tower? Have you come seeking aid?"

"I… yes, actually. But where is everybody else?"

Her lips drew thin. "So far as I know, I am the only one left. We did what we could. The apprentices, the children… but by the time I sealed the door it was too late."

Alistair's eyes strayed to the pulsating barricade.

"Do not worry; it will hold. I am Wynne, by the way."

"Greagoir… Knight-Commander Greagoir has ordered the Right of Annulment. We should get you out of here."

She nodded. "As I suspected. But I fear there may be others still trapped inside. And Uldred… Uldred must be stopped."

"…Yeah."

"Isn't that why you're here?"

"I… don't know exactly. Greagoir says he will not hold the Right until he speaks with the First Enchanter."

Wynne folded her arms. "Then your path would seem clear wouldn't it?"

Again, he found his eyes roaming. There was another set of doors, at the bottom of a short flight of steps and heavily barred. He felt himself stiffen, but could not say why. "Where does that go?"

Her eyes narrowed, but there was something resigned behind her expression. "Nowhere that concerns you. Now. Do we go or not?"

"_We_?"

"I will accompany you, of course."

Alistair ran a hand through his hair, meeting her eyes with a sheepish grimace. "Are you sure you're… up to it?"

Her lips pursed into a crooked smirk. "I may be no spring chicken, but there is much to be done."

"Right. Okay."

Turning to the others, he was surprised to find Morrigan already striding back the way they had come. "Where are you going?"

She whirled with a sneer, folding her arms. "You have the help you sought. I see no need to risk myself in another of your fool endeavors. When you are finished playing templar, I shall be waiting cross the lake." She was gone before he could speak.

Wynne was at his side, clucking her tongue beneath a spreading grin.

"What?"

"Oh, just the way you were watching her. One might say that you were… enraptured."

"With _Morrigan_? Enraged, more like."

"Oh? Find those swaying hips maddening, do you?"

"I wasn't... I didn't… didn't see anything at all really."

"Of course."

With a groan, Alistair turned to the barrier. "I can just tell this is going to be fun."

* * *

Panting, Alistair leaned heavy on his sword. Three floors and still they had found none alive, save Wynne. Oh, they had found plenty of spirits and demons and an abomination or two but…

"—Blood all over me again? And…" Zevran groaned, slouching against the wall. "I think some of it may be mine."

"Hush." Wynne bent beside him, hands roaming over his shoulder and down his arm.

He grinned. "Ahh, my darling Wynne, you have a marvelously tender touch."

"Egad. Do you ever shut up?"

Beside them, Sten snorted.

Alistair, though, was looking ahead. There seemed to be only one door remaining on the floor. He turned back to Wynne. "Is this it?"

She nodded. "The stairs are just beyond. That is where Uldred will be."

"Great." Squaring his shoulders, Alistair pushed the door aside.

It loomed there, huge and hulking and bent. He almost didn't see the body, the mage slipping from the creature's grasp to crumple to the floor. It looked like an abomination but somehow larger… thicker… The very air seemed suddenly heavy, coming in harsh, gulping, gasps. Its skin was bubbled, the face melted half away, but as he sank to his knees Alistair could have sworn he saw the… creature… smile…

* * *

The air was thick, the mists hanging heavy. Away the landscape stretched, barren and endless but always it was shifting, sliding from woods to walls to caverns wherever he attempted to fix his eyes. But it was warm here, comfortable… right. Alistair breathed deep. Someone was cooking, cooking something wonderful. The path seemed to twist, sloping away beneath him. Smiling now, he followed the scent.

"Alistair!" The woman was none that he had ever seen before, her face lined and tired despite the beaming smile there. But as she threw her arms around him, he laughed; sweeping her off her feet, he knew.

"Gol-Goldanna?"

"Little brother." She pulled back to look at him, wetting a pair of fingers to wipe a smudge from his cheek. "How you've grown."

"Have I?"

"And a _Grey Warden_ now, I hear. Mother would be so proud." Stepping aside, she gestured to the table behind her, already laid for the feast. The man there raised his head, nodding with a thin-lipped smile.

"Duncan? You're alive?"

The old Warden shook his head with the rumbling chuckle. "Of course I am. The Blight is ended, Ferelden united. I _had_ intended to invite you to return with me to Weisshaupt, to the rest of the Wardens…"

"Duncan, this-this is Goldanna, my sister. Siiister… sister..."

She punched him playfully in the arm.

"And a truly marvelous cook. I doubt that you would want to leave such a family."

"Family." He blinked, realizing for the first time that they were not alone. "These-these are all your children?"

Goldanna only nodded, moving away to tend to the meal.

The closest was a small boy, no more than five, curled on the ground and cradling something in his lap. His hair was dark, hanging wild cross his eyes, caring nothing for the earth that stained his fine but rumpled clothes. He laughed as the pup wriggled free, springing from his arms to roll yipping in the dirt.

Alistair crouched beside them, reaching out a hand.

"Careful, sir. He's a mabari."

Hard to reconcile this tiny thing with the beast he had seen in the hills above Redcliff. But it stopped now, still on its back, ears twitching as it fixed him with wide, dark eyes.

"They only ever have one master. S'called imprinting."

"You know, I've heard that."

As if in response, the pup sprang to its feet, pulling back its lips to snarl.

"See? He's not for you. He only does what _I_ tell him." The boy stroked an idle hand through that bristling fur, holding Alistair's gaze with a thoughtful smile as he rose to his feet.

"Right."

It hit him hard and low, tiny arms wrapping round his thigh. He almost staggered, but there was a giggle beneath the squeaking growl. "You're dead!"

The dwarf blinked up at him with a wicked smirk, her dark hair pulled tight into a pair of tiny pigtails. She could have been no older than the boy, but already her cheeks bore the strange geometric brands of Orzammar's casteless.

Alistair quirked a brow. "Am I?"

She nodded vigorously. "I gotcha!"

"No you didn't."

The dwarf whirled at the sound, releasing her hold on Alistair's leg to scowl up at the other boy. He was little taller than she, but lithe and lean, long hair tucked back behind pointed, elven ears. Eyes narrowing thoughtfully, he stretched to poke a finger against Alistair's chest. "Here. You've got to get him here."

"How? He's too _big_."

The elf shrugged. "A bow would do it."

"You and your bow." She stuck out her tongue. "Stab anything enough times and it'll go down, no matter how big it is. S'better that way."

He left them to their argument, chuckling beneath his breath. There were still others at the table. A dwarven boy, his face unmarked, sitting stiff and silent beside Duncan. His hands were folded before him, the picture of propriety, but his eyes roamed restless, feet swinging impatiently. Sensing Alistair's glance, he grinned.

Two others were huddled together, an elven girl and a human boy. Her fingers whirled above one of the empty plates, raising it on its end with a trembling shudder. It spun there, faster and faster before toppling to the ground with a crash. The boy threw back his head to laugh. Goldanna turned at the noise, shaking her head with a wistful smile.

She bustled to Alistair's side, a firm hand on his shoulder pressing him onto the bench. "Here, time to eat."

Another girl moved round, bearing a large and fragrant covered tray. Slight and elven, she wore a long, pale dress, her golden hair worked with small white buds. She had kept her eyes averted but at Alistair's glance she raised them, holding there.

"Hi."

The girl said nothing, setting the tray down as her eyes narrowed.

"Uh… what's your name?"

She leaned close, silent still. He didn't see her hand move, didn't feel the pain until he looked to the blood pooling from his belly. Blinking at him, she pulled the dagger free, bending to whisper in his ear.

"Wake up."


	8. The Fade

"Hrrrargh!" Alistar shot upright, coming to his knees. One hand went to his belly, pulling away the mail to slip beneath, fingers curling in pain. But the skin there was whole, unbroken. Great. Right. Gutted by an imaginary little girl.

He hadn't noticed the sword trembling before him, must have drawn it reflexively as he woke. Placing one hand over the other he steadied it, leveling it at the creature.

It turned slow, one sagging eye widening. "Hmm… interesting…"

Alistair scrambled backward, sword wavering still. Its bulk shifted awkwardly as it approached, feet dragging cross the stones.

"Why not… rest? You deserve… to rest…"

Already his arms felt heavy, a slow tingling starting in his fingers. But still the girl seemed to swim before him, the wicked flash of her eyes. It was… important… that he stay awake… somehow…

"Look… at your friends. See their… peace…"

His leg bumped against Sten's shoulder, the big man lying sprawled on his side. Snorting, his lips twitched. On anyone else it might have been a smile. Zevran, though, lay curled beside him, arms gripped tight round his knees, flinching with a whispered whimper. Wynne was on her back, stiff and deathly pale. Her eyes were pinched shut but it glistened there, the long trail of a single tear.

Alistair steadied his hands.

"I… see… And yet you would leave them… behind…" Something shifted in the folds of its face, smile pulling crooked. "You cannot do this… alone…"

The heaviness redoubled, his sword clattering from fingers gone suddenly numb. Alistair sank back on his heels, falling hard against Zevran's curled and quaking form, but there was something… knowing behind that smile. No… not… alone…

_Wake up._

* * *

Laughter. Still the mists hung close, but he knew this now for what it was. There were no scents to entice – not this time – no smiles to welcome. Only that laughter, cruel and cold and rising. Squaring his shoulders, Alistair made his way down the hill.

Two elves moved in the clearing below, one bending to turn a long, wooden crank while the other looked on with folded arms. He had seen one of these devices before, in the basements of Redcliff castle, but it had been old, the dust thick with disuse. A rack. The elf between them was bound at wrists and ankles, laying stiff and still despite the strain. Alistair blinked. Somehow he had still expected there to be a smile there, but Zevran's jaw was set in grim determination.

One of the others leaned close, the hiss of his words carrying on the still air. "We will break you yet."

"Do… what you… will…" The chuckle was familiar, though rasping and strained.

Neither of the others looked up at Alistair's approach, but Zevran's neck twisted, raising his head with a grimace. His eyes widened. "You…"

Alistair's gaze roamed over the tensing muscle, the deep bite of the bindings, the sweat beading there. He shook his head. "We have to go."

Again the crank turned, the gears protesting. Zevran's back tried to buckle, the gasp escaping through gritted teeth. "No. I… will be… a Crow…"

"A Crow? You're already a Crow. Remember that whole trying-to-kill-me thing?"

"Mmm…?" His face fell, head collapsing back against the wood. "I do seem… to recall…"

"The Circle Tower? Sten? Wynne? Big ugly demon?"

"Ahh, Wynne…"

"Right. Great."

His eyes seemed to focus, holding to Alistair's before turning to blink up at his bonds. There was something almost bemused behind his expression. "Hmm."

But the others, too, seemed to rouse, turning to Alistair as if seeing him for the first time. One of them cocked his head. "You're not supposed to be here."

"Yeah, I get that a lot lately."

They moved quick, circling round to trap him between them. He had watched Zevran and Leliana spar, could remember his initial encounter with the elf. These two moved in much the same way, the grace, the speed but there was something… off. Movements without skill, a reflection fogged and twisted. Not real.

When his blade sliced cross the throat of the first the scream was silent, bloodless. The second fell heavy against him, disappearing round the wound in its gut, fading smiling into the mists.

"Ahh." Zevran sat, rubbing at his wrists as he rolled his head between his shoulders. The bonds, it seemed, had vanished. "Nothing like a good racking, I always say."

"Right. You could have helped, you know."

"And spoil the daring rescue? Tsk." He came slow to his feet, the wince well hidden.

"Did they… I mean, do you…?" Alistair offered an arm, but Zevran only narrowed his eyes, stepping wide. "Do you often dream of—?"

"—Of you, my friend?" Something of the smile returned, twisting crooked as he raised a brow. "Perhaps not in so many clothes. Wait. Where are you going?"

It seemed to shimmer round him, the mists coalescing, thickening as the elf faded from view. Alistair darted forward, but his hands found only air.

"Great." He turned round, looking toward the shifting skies. "And what does _that_ mean?"

_Wake up._

* * *

Another hill, another darkening dream. But there were new sounds here, the chirps and twitters of falling night, the low roar of flames. So too did it stir, the thick scent of boiling meat, the clang of cookpots. And laughter again, deep and thick and real.

Sten glanced up as he approached. He stood beside a campfire, two other Qunari elbowing each other as they argued over the meager meal. They did not seem to see him.

"Warden."

"Sten. Hey. I…"

With a rumbling sigh, he turned back to the flames. On any other man, Alistair might have called the expression wistful. The others were chuckling now.

"I didn't know that the Qunari could, you know… laugh."

"That is your failing, not mine."

"It's just that you're not exactly…"

He turned, eyes narrowing as they blinked down at him. "Let us be done with it."

"Done with…? You _know_?"

"It is a dream. But it is a good dream." His shoulders stiffened as he reached for his blade. "It has been good to see them again."

"These are them? Your… what did you call them?"

"They were as _kadan_ to me. My brothers. Slain by darkspawn and left to be picked clean by your _bas_."

"Right. The sword thing. We'll—"

"—Be silent."

One of the men had glanced up, eyes glinting dangerously in the firelight. "Look _Ashaad_, the _Sten_ would leave us again."

"_The_ Sten?"

But the big man was already moving, sword coming round in a wide arc as the pair came smoothly to their feet. One met the blow, moving to parry, his blade slicing Sten's clean through. He laughed at that, slipping aside as his commander staggered. "Where is your sword, _Tal'Vashoth_?"

Alistair stepped round, surprise pushed aside, but the big man recovered quickly. He let the momentum carry him forward, one knee taking the soldier in the gut as his hands wrapped round his throat. It bore them both downward, the wet thunk of the man's head against the stone echoing as Alistair turned to the other. Again the thrusts were imprecise, again the man disappeared as Alistair's blade found the weak spot in the side of his plate.

But still Sten knelt, hands before him, the first man likewise vanished.

Alistair crouched beside him. "Just a dream, remember?"

He sat back on his heels, jaw again set, violet eyes expressionless. "And how then do we wake?"

"Like that, basically."

The shimmering had begun again, the Qunari staring up at him with a fading scowl.

"Well, either that or you're dying, far as I can tell."

There was something of a smirk there. "That is… comforting."

_Wake up._

* * *

Would it be strange to say that he was getting used to this? Okay, yes. Very strange.

Opening his eyes, Alistair blinked in surprise. He was back in the tower, on the first floor… the very room where they had met Wynne. Turning round, he stiffened. Still the light was sourceless, the walls shifting. No, not the tower at all.

But it was there again, that short flight of steps, the double doors… open. They were open now. Still they were shadowed, the darkness seeming to thicken as he stared. Alistair stepped forward.

"Mustn't go in there."

"It's not your place."

He whirled. They stood cross the room, hand in hand. The girl was slight, elven, the white of her short-cropped hair blending strangely with the paleness of her cheeks. The boy was darker, human, his hair pulled back in a long braid. Familiar, both of them. They had been in his dream… at the table… breaking Goldanna's plates. But there were no smiles there now.

"What's-what's in there?"

"It does not matter now." The girl shook her head, slowly, sadly.

The boy, though, held his eye. "The book is important now. Don't forget the book."

"Book? What book?"

They shared a look.

"The Litany of Adralla."

"You must find Niall."

"Right. Okay. But the riddles? The whole… creepy… thing? Can't you just tell me—?"

It scraped behind him, footsteps on the stairs. Alistair turned, but the figure didn't seem to see him, glancing round before slipping furtively from the shadows. That cringe, that fear…

"Jowan."

He spun, the question already on his lips, but the children were gone. When he glanced over his shoulder, so too was the mage.

"Bloody Fade."

But there was a new sound now, the wail rising, the very stones seeming to shake with it. Wynne knelt across the room cradling a red-haired woman in her lap. And there were more of them, lying scattered and broken and still: men, women, many of them dressed as apprentices, many of them… small. Alistair found himself searching their faces, but of the girl and boy there was no sign.

"Wynne?"

Still she rocked, seeming not to have heard him.

"Wynne?"

"Leave me." She did not look up, bending instead to lay a kiss against the woman's forehead. "Petra..."

Alistair crouched, reaching out a hand. "Hey. It's… it's just a dream. We're in the Fade."

Chuckling, she shook her head. "You think I don't know that?" The sigh was bitter. "But truth is truth, no matter where we are. It should have been me."

"You did all you could."

"Did I?" She raised her eyes to his. "It should have been me. It was _meant_ to be me. I am certain now."

"That you should have died?" He tried to force a smile. "But then you couldn't have helped me."

"Perhaps… you are right. But I still cannot shake the feeling…"

"You get used to it. Well, sort of."

She blinked at that.

"Nevermind. We have to get out of here."

Wynne shook her head. "This sleep is unnatural. There will be a trick to it, to breaking the demon's hold."

"Yeah… about that…"

In Wynne's arms the woman stirred, eyes snapping open. Alistair pulled the old mage to her feet. But around them the others were moving, sitting, smiling, calling out. Maker, there were so many of them.

"Stay with us, Wynne."

"You promised."

She slipped free her staff, pressing her back to his as they circled. Alistair twisted to look over his shoulder. "They really killed a lot of people, didn't they?"

"I told you I should have saved more."

"Not really arguing." But still he found his eyes searching, scanning the tightening ring of faces. "Some of that help would be really great right about now."

"What?"

They moved as one, the air thickening, freezing, burning. Stone crumbled, the very floor seeming to grab at his boots. The fighters had been strange but he supposed a room full of mages – real or no – could kill you just the same.

Wynne's hands were working quick, staff thrust skyward, the air around her shimmering. It took him a moment to see the ripple, the mists twisting beside him, resolving into—

"Ah. Well. Here I am."

"_Zevran?_"

"Hmm?" He blinked, glancing round the room. "Killing things, are we?"

"Yes, but—"

"—Say no more."

There was another figure moving through the crowd, sword swinging whole and true. Alistair winced as it took a pair of apprentice boys cross their chests. Right. Already dead. And most likely evil.

"Sten!"

The Qunari only gave him a vague nod before plunging deeper into the fray.

Wynne, though, had staggered. He slipped an arm beneath her. Strangely, she made no protest. "You see? I am not… strong enough."

"You're only human."

She chuckled.

But the air was clearing now; only a few of the mages remained on their feet. Still Zevran and Sten moved amongst them, their work quickly finished. As they approached, Wynne straightened.

"Your dream is it, my dear Wynne?"

She glowered at the assassin.

"And such a massacre! I would not have thought—"

Beside him, Sten grunted.

"And what did you dream of, my large and boorish friend?"

"I crushed my brother's head beneath my hands."

Zevran quirked a brow but shifted ever so slightly away.

Alistair sheathed his blade. "So why aren't we waking up now?"

"Because you deserve to rest."

He whirled, feeling the others tense behind him. The fallen mages had faded, the fleeing mists swirling now round the figure looming, growing at the room's center. It shuffled even here, sagging skin swaying as it slowly shook its head. "You should not… be here…"

"So you'll just let us go then?"

It quivered on the air, dark and bubbling and cold. It took a moment for Alistair to realize that the demon was laughing.

"Right. Nevermind then." He unsheathed his blade.

"You should not… be here…" It shuffled forward, shifting as it did so, growing quick and horned and laughing. Nightmare made flesh. "You should not be here…but it will do..."


	9. The Harrowing Chamber

"Maker's breath! How many shapes does this thing have?" Darting wide, Alistair let the weight of his shield carry him into a crouch. Claws scraped there, digging deep of the rusted steel.

The demon reeled away with a howl, Zevran just visible above its shoulder, a dagger plunging deep into either side of its neck. Again it swelled, looking something like an ogre now, swatting the elf away with ease.

Behind him, he could hear Wynne sigh. "Form doesn't matter in the Fade."

"Yet all have the same weakness." Sten loomed above him, blinking down with a scowl. He touched a pair of fingers to head, chest and belly before throwing his weight into a massive swing. The creature staggered, returning to its almost familiar wrinkled and sagging shape.

"Yes, but how do we know if it's dead? If it's just going to keep changing and…"

Zevran had regained his feet, slipping behind the abomination to open its throat. It wavered a moment before falling onto its face with a flat and sickening thump.

"…Okay then."

Sten slipped a toe beneath one of the splayed arms, shaking his head with a grunt. "We do not wake."

"Actually you kind of… Hey! Hey, what's that?" Holding out his arm, Alistair saw the familiar mists curling there, flexed fingers that were suddenly fading.

Zevran met his gaze with a smirk. "Tingles, does it not?"

* * *

Putting a hand to his head, Alistair groaned. "Remind me never to dream again."

The others were stirring, Sten already coming to his feet. Zevran raised his head from his knees, arms still curled tight there, eyes narrowing to see Alistair watching him. Moving quick, he stood to help Wynne.

Alistair, though, found his eyes drawn across the room, past the heavy bulk of the abomination, lying just as they had left it. There too lay the man, discarded and forgotten.

"Alistair?"

He crouched over the mage, feeling Wynne come to stand behind him. Hesitating only a moment, he trailed a hand over the man's robes, fingers curling away to feel the sharp edges there. He pulled the book free, rocking back on his heels.

"The Litany of Adralla."

Wynne bent low, twisting her head to peer at him. "You can read it?"

There were runes set deep into the leather of the cover, but Alistair shook his head. He looked again to the man. "And this is Niall."

"How could you possibly know that?"

Straightening, he hugged the book to his chest.

"Did he speak to you? In the Fade? If Niall was trying to use the Litany… But it… I think that it could work. Against Uldred."

"Right." Slowly Alistair raised his eyes to hers. "Wynne… the children… the ones that died…"

She winced visibly, seeming suddenly older than her years. "There were many. Too many."

"But I mean specifically. A girl… an elf… very pale. And a boy… a human boy with a dark braid."

Wynne blinked at that, surprise flickering behind the grief. "A… girl? And a boy?" Slowly, she shook her head. "They were not among the children in my care."

"But you know them."

She stared at him for a long moment. "I do not know what you saw in the Fade. We all saw things that are better left forgotten." Her eyes narrowed, but there was a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. "But like you said: You get used to it."

He held the book tighter as she turned away, blinking as she glanced back over her shoulder.

"Bring the book. It's important."

As the others stepped into the hall, he tucked it into his pack. Zevran, though, had lingered behind, quickening his pace as he made to slip round. Bracing an arm in the doorway, Alistair forced him to slow.

"So… the Crows… they tortured you? Leliana… she told me something of it. That they use… slaves."

The assassin snorted, leaning back against the wall. "You think I _chose_ this profession? For the travel? The retirement plan? The women?" He chuckled. "Ahh, but the _women_!"

"I didn't know."

Thin fingers wrapped round Alistair's wrist, twisting it out of the way. The smile did not reach his eyes. "You did not ask."

Wynne was waiting beyond the door, staring up the hall. "We have searched nearly every room." She shook her head, seeming to whisper to herself. "Uldred did always have a penchant for the dramatic."

"What?"

Slowly she turned, raising her eyes to his. "The Harrowing Chamber. That is where he will be."

"Great."

The final stair would be just ahead, she promised. But again they found the way barred, their swords again growing heavy.

"Dragons. Dragons! Demons and abominations and the walking dead… but _dragons_?"

Sten snorted, bending to run his sword along the flank of the fallen beast. "These are but hatchlings. A dragon would be bigger." The scales came away in a thick slice, stiff and wet and stinking. He tossed it to Alistair.

"Okay, ew!"

The big man narrowed his eyes. "There is strong armor to be made from drake scales."

"Right. Yeah. I'll just… keep this then." Wrinkling his nose, he tucked the skin into his pack.

"Hush." Wynne had stepped round, laying a hand on his arm. The room ahead was open, the stones bathed in a faint, violet glow. There was a man there, a templar, trapped behind a ring of pulsating light.

At their approach, he turned his face away, holding up a warding hand. "No more!"

"No more what?"

Raising his eyes, the templar scowled. "Begone! Test me no more!"

"Uh huh. I'm Alistair… of the Grey Wardens. We're…" He glanced behind him. "We're here to help."

"She said that you would come for me."

"She who?"

There was laughter there, rising through twisted lips. "Illusion. All of it. But I will not break."

Wynne clucked her tongue. "The poor dear. Who knows what he is seeing, what Uldred has done."

"Uldred." The man stiffened, leaning toward the barrier. "Blood mages. In the Harrowing Chamber. If you are truly here to help, you know what must be done."

"And what's that?"

"Kill them. All of them. Whatever they are doing up there…" He shook his head, scowl deepening. "They killed the templars, mages… others. They're blood mages. They cannot be allowed to escape again. None must leave that room alive."

"'Again?'"

Snorting, he turned away.

"You're serious? You really want me to go up there and just start killing things?"

"_Everything_. She said that you could do it; she said that you could make it right."

Behind him, he could feel Wynne stiffen. But her scowl was cold, set. "You cannot do this. I will not."

Alistair shook his head. "I'm not doing anything."

"But you must. The choice is yours."

"And why is that exactly?"

She only shook her head.

"Right." He turned back to the imprisoned templar. "I'm not doing anything until I see what's going on up there. If there's any chance that anyone's still alive—"

"—They may have already been turned. Blood mages. You will not know them. None can leave that room alive."

"Yeah, you've said that."

The man straightened, clasping his hands behind him. "I am a templar. It is my duty." But his eyes flared, the lie clear.

"Okay." Alistair turned to the others, gaze lingering on Wynne. She nodded.

Mounting the stairs, he pushed aside the door.

* * *

It hit his face like a furnace blast, the crackling energies standing his hair on end. The mage sank to his knees, back heaving, a pair of abominations holding him there. It surged round him, the light, the pain, the screams… And there were others, just beyond that flaring light, watching bound and wide-eyed.

The exercises came back reflexively, the years of templar training, the breaths, the stillness, the cleansing. He could feel his skin cool, the bite of the air fading away. But he wasn't a templar, not really, not like the man below. He couldn't… couldn't…

Collapsing, the mage gave a final whimper. Slowly he raised his head, eyes sliding sideways, cheeks sagging round a wordless scream. An abomination. The abominations had been the mages.

But there was another now, stepping between the creatures, pointed features pulling into a sneering grin. "Ah, Wynne."

"Uldred."

"Right. So you're the bad guy." Alistair leveled his shield.

"Is that what I am?" That smile only broadened, his head tilting curiously. "But you, I think, are something else…"

"Grey Warden. Templar. Sort of." He nodded to the huddled mages. "But what about them?"

"They will join me soon enough." Uldred stepped back , spreading his arms as the abominations moved forward.

Behind him, he could feel the others tense. Wynne, though, leaned close. "The Litany. It will protect the mages from his influence. Use it."

"Use it how?"

Her eyes narrowed.

"Here…" Alistair shifted, pulling the book from his pack. "You're a mage. You do it."

Still she shook her head. "It is yours to use."

"What? How? That doesn't make any sense! I can't even read thi—"

The lightning arced between them, shattering the stones beneath their feet. Wynne spun sideways, her own staff hissing with energy. Uldred, though, was laughing, chest heaving, stretching, expanding with a ripping growl.

Zevran was at his shoulder. "Hmm. Another ogre it is."

"That's a really… big…"

One of the abominations charged forward, set to ram the space between them. Alistair darted aside just in time.

Sten was already moving cross the circle, making for Uldred himself. Alistair followed, but Wynne was there then, her cry nearly sucked away on the crackling air.

"The Litany!"

Right. Sword. Shield. Book. Balancing awkwardly, Alistair ran his fingers over the runes. One of the mages was ringed with light, arms outstretched. From the look on his face, the experience wasn't pleasant.

But he knew this. He had dispelled magic before. Well, practiced anyway. Closing his eyes, he tried to slow his breath, remember something that might be useful…

It took him hard in the gut, the arms that wrapped round his waist squeezing cold and tight and heavy. The abomination bore them both backwards, his sword clattering away across the broken tiles. But the book. He had the book. Leveling a knee between them, Alistair swung as hard as he could for the creature's face.

Zevran was there then, a series of quick thrusts taking it between the shoulder blades. It fell heavy, crushing, before the assassin's kick sent it rolling sideways.

"Hey, thanks I—"

But he was gone. The mage that had been surrounded slumped now against the floor, shaken but dragging himself back toward the others. One of them, white haired and bearded, was coming slowly to his feet.

Only Uldred remained. The ogre roared, half-crouched, putting all its weight behind a sudden charge. Sten rolled sideways, spinning round, a single leap brining him up onto the creature's thigh. It staggered overbalanced, careening backward as the Qunari pulled himself up onto its chest. His sword struck home, just beneath the throat, the massive bulk slipping away beneath him. But still he balanced as it fell, still he kept his feet.

Alistair gaped. "What in Andraste's name was _that_?"

The big man blinked, turning slowly round. "It is dead."

"Yeah, but did you have to…?"

Something twitched behind Sten's lips.

"Show off."

"Hmm."

The mages were coming slowly to their feet. Wynne moved among them, grasping hands with the old man. There was relief there, a nod of thanks, but turning to Alistair his eyes widened in surprise. After a moment, he smiled.

* * *

"So you now command an army of mages who very nearly destroyed themselves."

"Apparently." The cramped boat rocked on, the tower looming still at their backs. Alistair had found himself seated in the stern beside Sten. Wynne sat beside their escort, whispering softly with the templar as he rowed. That had been a surprise; the old mage had insisted that she be allowed to accompany them. Her expression, though, had left little room for debate. He chuckled.

"And this comforts you? This is what you sought?"

"It's a start."

Sten's eyes strayed toward the growing shore.

"I haven't forgotten, you know. We'll find your sword. What was the deal? I find it or you – what? – beat me, kill me, drop me in the lake?"

"It is… likely."

"See? Now _that_ comforts me."


	10. To Denerim

"Denerim."

"Denerim." Alistair squared his shoulders, meeting the big man glare for glare.

"No."

The others had been almost easy to convince. Leliana and Wynne hadn't questioned the decision; Zevran had been carefully apathetic; even Morrigan had barely sneered as she stalked off toward her tiny fire on the edge of camp. But there was a reason he had delayed, a reason he had waited until the road split, snaking north round the lake to Orzammar or west cross the Bannorn to Denerim.

"Sten… That is where Brother Genitivi will be. He's our best chance of finding the Urn."

"The dust of a dead woman. You would forsake the Blight for this?"

"It's our best chance of healing Arl Eamon."

His sigh rumbled deep. "One man."

"Who can help us, I promise. And there are… other reasons to go to Denerim. Supplies, information…"

"And the… _kithshok_ that seeks your death."

Folding his arms, Alistair scowled. "Loghain will be dealt with. You have my word."

The Qunari regarded him a long moment, lips twitching into something of a smirk. Funny how he was starting to recognize those.

"Very well." With that, he stalked off toward the trees.

"So? How did it go?"

He whirled to find Leliana at his elbow, watching the big man go. Alistair let himself sag, surprised to find the knot slipping from between his shoulders. "Okay… well, maybe."

"You know you could just order him to come. He would listen, I think."

"Right. I-I'm just not really the giving orders type. Kind of a follower, actually. And… and I'm okay with that."

"I don't think that's true." She smiled up at him, tilting her head thoughtfully. "Or if it was, it isn't anymore. And it is not as if you have a choice… as if any of us do."

Alistair snorted, shaking his head. "There is that."

"Come." Laying a hand on his arm, she steered him toward the fire. "Supper is ready."

"You cooked?"

"I would rather not see another lamb so treated. Even in death, their memory deserves better than that." She smirked. "And you cannot be expected to do everything."

"Hey!" Crouching beside her on the log, he hunched his shoulders. "…Do I really complain that much?"

"A bit, yes." But there was a smile there as she stirred, humming beneath her breath. "Now _this_ is what we call—"

"—Oh Maker, I forgot!" Alistair came quick to his feet, the offered spoon knocked aside. He paused, blinking down at her as he ran a sheepish hand through his hair. "I… I'll be right back. Just… wait there."

Moving quick to his tent, he bent to his packs, slipping free the forgotten book. Right. This was probably a bad idea… horrible, really. But he had said he would… Straightening, he steeled himself, watching the low flames flicker on the edge of camp. Okay.

Leliana was watching him, eyes narrowing as he made his way across the clearing. Morrigan, though, did not even glance up as he approached.

"Hey… I…"

She pursed her lips, chuckling beneath her breath as she continued to busy herself with her pouches.

"Here. Just… here."

He could see the insult forming on her lips but the sneer slipped as she raised her head, eyes going wide. Unfolding quick, she came to her feet. "Mother's grimoire! But how did you—"

"—It was in the Tower, like you said. It looks a little… I mean, the leather's… and those burns… It was like that when I found it."

Morrigan traced thoughtful fingers over the cracked spine. "'Tis how it has always been, at least in my memory." She met his stare with a wicked smirk. "And 'tis not _leather_…"

"Riiight. Very creepy."

"And yet you retrieved it for me nonetheless."

Alistair felt his neck stiffen beneath that gaze. "Yeah… Well, I was there anyway – y'know – and it was… just…"

"Indeed. You have my thanks."

He must have goggled, for she laughed.

Morrigan stepped closer, stalking, swaying, predatory. "I can be civilized… when I must." Laying a hand against his chest, her fingers curled, nails biting through the thin cloth of his tunic. "Or less so… if that is what is required."

"What-what are you doing?"

Again she chuckled, tilting her chin upward as she leaned close. So close now. "You have done me a favor. Surely there is something you require in return."

"Whoa! Okay, no!" He stepped back, one foot slipping on an upturned stone.

Her smile only grew wider, teeth glinting as her lips twisted.

Regaining his balance, Alistair held up a warding hand. "It's not that I… well, it _is_ that I hate you, actually. Quite a lot. But… just… it was a gift, okay?"

"A gift."

"A really… sort of terrifying… gift. But I-I don't _want_ anything. Especially not…"

Now, _now_ she scowled. He was almost relieved.

"Just don't – y'know – do anything _too_ evil with it. Don't blow anything up or turn me into a toad or—"

"—Oh? A toad, is it? I should think that would be an improvement."

"Right. Go die or something. Good night."

He could still feel those eyes on him as he made his way back into camp, watching, weighing, wondering. As he came to the fire, though, he found Zevran sitting alone, the stew pot tucked between his knees.

"Where's Leliana?"

"Mmm? Our dear Sister suddenly found herself quite exhausted, it seems." He nodded toward the shadows flickering round Morrigan's tent. "I did not expect you back so soon myself."

"Great." Leliana's own tent lay quiet, darkened, cold. "That's just great."

"_Tale è vita_, my friend." He grinned, offering the pot as Alistair curled his legs beneath him and slumped against the log.

"Yeah. Whatever." Dipping the spoon, he watched the stew fall in thick chunks. "Why are you still awake, anyway? Planning to kill us all in our sleep?"

The elf chuckled, slipping free a dagger to work the dirt from beneath his nails.

"That's not exactly a denial."

"Must I still provide one? Shall I beg each day for your trust? Appeal anew to your Grey Warden mercy?"

"Right… Point taken."

Slowly, Zevran raised his eyes to his. "Perhaps you should care more for the trust your companions place in _you_, yes? Sten will not be the last."

"And you?"

"You have my oath."

"So you keep saying." Settling back against the log, he set the pot aside. The flames had burned low, the silence hanging heavy. Sten didn't trust him, he couldn't be sure about Wynne, Leliana was apparently upset with him and Morrigan, well… He sighed. "Humor me."

"Mmm?"

"Why _are_ you still up?"

"Because I do not wish to sleep." Twisting, Zevran stretched the length of the log, propping his chin on an elbow.

"Grey Wardens have dreams too, you know. Part of the whole… taint-thing."

"Oh?" He quirked a brow. "And what is it that Grey Wardens dream of?"

"We… we sense it. The darkspawn, the Blight. More now than before. That-that's how we know. How _I_ know."

"Ahh."

Wrapping arms round his knees, he shook his head. "I-I've never told anyone that. Anyone that wasn't a Grey Warden anyway. Who didn't already—"

"—But now you are the last."

Alistair turned, the assassin's eyes glinting only inches from his own. But there was no malice, no mockery there. "I've thought that… that that's maybe why they're so…" He sighed. "They've been worse since Ostagar. Like my head's not big enough to hold them all. And I see it now… Every night. Every time. I-I see the archdemon."

Zevran straightened, laying a hand on Alistair's shoulder as he came slowly to his feet. "As do we all… in our way."

"Right."

* * *

"Why are you staring at me like that?"

The city opened before them, the crowd streaming round and through the gates. They had seemed to attract little attention, the guards on duty barely giving them a second glance, but the market was crowded, noisome, close. Zevran had ranged ahead, slipping quickly out of sight; even Sten seemed to be standing more stiffly than usual… were that possible. Morrigan, though, seemed content to burn holes in his back.

"I am not _staring_."

"You were a bit." Leliana was keeping close to his other side, scanning the crowd. She had made no mention of the night with the stew, but her sudden exhaustion had lasted for three nights since.

"And I suppose you will tell me that your Chantry has rules against such things? Shall I be demure, then? Avert my eyes in the presence of men?"

Leliana snorted, eyes still searching distractedly. "The Chantry? No. But I suppose a woman such as yourself cannot be expected to know anything of common courtesy."

"And what sort of woman is that, I wonder?"

"Maker's breath…" Alistair looked to Sten, but still the Qunari was stoic, impassive, his lips barely twitching. "Don't you dare."

Sten snorted.

There was a row of houses just beyond the gate, their close walls opening into a low, stone courtyard. Laundry billowed there, the woman who moved among the linens pausing to sweep a strand of hair from her eyes. He had seen her before.

Alistair found himself moving forward, cutting through the crowd to lean against the cracked and crumbled stone.

"Is another woman truly what you need?" Wynne had followed him, carefully tucking her skirts beneath her as she perched on a low bit of wall. There was something playful there, the faintest hint of a thin-lipped smile.

"I don't have… She's not…" He sighed. "I think… I think I know her."

"Oh?"

"It's… it sounds strange, but I saw her… in the Fade. I think… I think she's my sister."

"I did not know you had any family."

"I… well, my mother was…" He paused, barely able to meet that gaze. Too calm, too knowing, too… expectant. "Nevermind. It's nothing." He pushed away from the wall.

"Hoy! You there!"

Alistair stiffened, turning slow.

Again the woman had paused, glaring as she pushed up a fallen sleeve. "Like to watch do you? Or you have linens? Two bits on the piece and don't trust a word that Natalia woman sa—"

"—Uh, no. No linens." He held up a forestalling hand. "I-I'm Alistair."

"Alistair, eh? Don't know you from the cobbler's son meself, but if you've not got any wash, I suggest you be—"

"—Going. Yes. Sorry to have bothered you." With something of a clumsy bow, he made his way back toward the gate.

Wynne had slipped away ahead of him, smile turning pitying

"Let's… let's just get this over with."

Zevran rejoined them as they approached the market proper. Never had he seen so many merchants, but they did need supplies, especially as they seemed to keep acquiring companions. But as he approached one of the nearest stalls, the assassin lay a hand on his arm.

"Step wide, my friend."

One of the men raised his head at that, deep and wrinkled eyes holding to the elf's. After a moment, he grinned, sparing them a single nod.

"What was that about?"

"Nothing you need fear… for the moment. Let us just say that it is lucky you kept me around, yes?"

"Right."

Moving further through the square, Alistair paused. He was getting a bit tired of this feeling, this strange sense of glimpsing something just out of sight. He found himself moving toward the stall before the others could follow.

"Dwarven?"

"Aye." The merchant nodded up at him. "Fine dwarven crafts, direct from Orzammar."

Still he couldn't shake the feeling… it wasn't familiar, per se, but… Alistair shook his head. "I have… business in Orzammar."

The dwarf's eyes darkened visibly, but still the smile held. When the words came at last, they were flat, cold, practiced. "I trade only in armor, sir. Weapons."

"That bad, huh?"

He softened at that, something of a smirk blooming beneath his beard. "Forgive me. Old wounds."

"Right. I know the feeling."

"If you're looking for information, I don't have much. Orzammar's lost its king. More than that, if you ask me. Just… be careful."

Alistair sighed. "Yeah. Thanks…?"

"Gorim."

Gorim. As he turned away, Alistair pinched the bridge of his nose. He needed sleep, that was it. Not going mad at all.

The others were waiting on the edge of the market, but none so much as glanced his way as he approached. In fact, they seemed to be staring at something off near the square's edge.

"…a grisly effigy, but the message is clear enough."

Beside Morrigan, Leliana shook her head. "It's horrible! Why would they—"

"—Why? Because they are only elves." Zevran stood apart from the others, as if he had taken half a step forward. Still he stood stiff, tensed, sneer fixed on the looming gate.

The alienage had always been somewhat separate from the city proper, but now the gate was lowered, the massive spikes driven deep into the earth. As to the elf above… Still he swung, the rope round his neck thick and coiled, feet tapping high against the iron bars. From the look of him he had been there for some time – months perhaps – even the birds now staying clear. If not for the clothing, the bit of short, blonde hair, Alistair might not have even known that he was once a man.

"What are you looking at? Move along." He hadn't seen the guard, straightening from his spot beside the gate.

"What-what happened here?"

"Uprising. Bloody elves." The man's eyes strayed to Zevran.

But Alistair was moving forward now, eyes still locked to the swaying figure. "And him?"

"One who started it." He snorted. "Not even from the alienage, they say. Came in for some knife-ear party and got 'em all riled up. Marched on the Arl's estate, he did." The man grinned. "Didn't last long, though."

"Then why is the gate still down?"

"No more outsiders." The comment was pointed, thinly veiled.

Shaking his head, Alistair again raised his eyes. Who wouldn't pity them? But still it stirred, vague and shifting. He ran a hand behind his neck, found the hair standing stiff.

There was movement now beyond the gate, a cough and the swish of skirts. He found himself moving forward, hand on the bars, fingers already stretching through the gap as the woman turned. Young and slight, her red hair was cropped close and short. She might have even been pretty, but surprise quickly faded into a withering scowl.

Alistair lowered his hand, trying to summon a sheepish smile. "Sorry, I…"

Taking a swaying step forward, she brought the bottle to her lips, one hand straying idly to her belly, to the bulge just visible there.

"Whoa. Hey, you know you probably shouldn't be—"

"—What's it to you, shem?" She laughed, staggering as she braced a hand on the gate.

Again, he felt the urge to reach for her. "I-I don't know. I'm sorry."

"Yeah. Great." She took another long pull.

"It's just… wrong somehow."

"Wrong? _Wrong_?" The laugh choked as she stumbled backward. "_Wrong?_" With a shriek, she hurled the bottle, shattering it against the bars.

Alistair raised shaking fingers, wiping the stinging wet from his cheeks. The girl had fallen to weeping now.

"I'm… I'm sorry."

The hand fell hard against his shoulder, the guardsman pulling him insistently away. "I said _move on_!"

"Right. Fine. I'm going."

The others were waiting still, expressions ranging from surprised to impatient to incredulous. But there was another watching now, standing only a few steps beyond.

"I… I know you." The knight was aged but standing stiff and proud, his plate polished and gleaming. "You were at Ostagar."

"Yeah. But I'm sorry, I don't—"

"—You killed the king."

"What?"

The man's hand strayed to his sword. "You were one of the Grey Wardens." His lips twisted at the words, the blade hissing as it slipped free. "And I will see you pay."


	11. The Pearl

"The Grey Wardens had nothing to do with the king's death." Alistair blinked at the blade leveled before him, holding steady in the old knight's hand. "It was Loghain."

"So you would now add slander to your crimes?"

He could feel the watching eyes, the marketplace falling silent. The dwarf Gorim had looked up from his stall; even the elven girl had straightened behind the gate, wiping the tears from her eyes with a curious stare.

Alistair lowered his voice, stepping close to the man. "Could we speak privately?"

Still he glowered, but after a moment he shook his head, sheathing the sword as he glanced round. "I doubt the value of your words. But perhaps your blade will speak more clearly." Again his hand strayed to the hilt, eyes narrowing as he leaned close. "Meet me behind those buildings there when the sun is at its peak. I _will_ have satisfaction, ser."

Alistair watched him go, watched the eyes of the marketplace turn pointedly away.

"A duel then? Marvelous!"

He turned to the elf with a scowl. "And what would you know about it?"

"Very little, I'm afraid. I myself like to avoid a fair fight, when I can."

"Great."

Zevran's grin turned wicked. "But I do happen to know someone that does. And she is in Denerim, last I heard."

* * *

"A whorehouse? You brought me to a _whorehouse_?"

"Ahh, but we have another purpose here." The assassin chuckled, laying a hand on his arm. "Though if our good ser knight will be making an end to you this afternoon… Perhaps it is finally time to rid yourself of that pesky Chantry purity, yes?"

Leliana stifled a giggle behind her hand.

"What? No… I'm not…"

"Relax, my friend." He pushed the door aside with an exaggerated bow.

Alistair had never been in a… in a… place like this before. Wynne had remained in the marketplace to browse amongst the stalls, waving them off as she made for The Wonders of Thedas. Morrigan and Sten had followed as far as the door, their twin scowls doing little to ease his mind. Only Leliana and Zevran remained as they slipped into the close and musky hall.

"You could have waited outside, you know."

Leliana blinked up at him with a playful grin. "Oh, I don't know. This could be fun."

"Right. Come to places like this often, do you?"

"Maybe." Twining an arm through his, she steered them toward the common room.

It was surprisingly crowded for the early hour… surprisingly lively too. One of the tables toppled with a crash, a battered patron sent sprawling. Two others were still on their feet, blades drawn as they circled a lone woman.

"Oh, _lovely_ place. Great idea. Remind me why we're here again."

"Just watch, my friend."

The woman seemed to give ground as they advanced, but there was no fear, no worry there. In fact, she grinned. Dropping low, she spun, elbow taking one man in the stomach. Her palm connected with the side of his head as he staggered, another quick turn bringing her blade only a hairsbreadth from the other man's throat. It pressed there, dimpling the skin as she leaned close.

"Our wager?"

Fear bulged behind his eyes, but so too was there resignation. Reaching slowly for his belt, he dropped a purse into her palm. Only then did she relent, sheathing the blade with a satisfied smirk.

"You may go."

Sulking, he gathered his fallen comrades, making quick for the door.

"Ahh, Isabela…"

"Zev." There were teeth behind her grin. "It's been some time."

"That was… that was… wow." Alistair found himself running a hand through his hair.

"Witnessed that little encounter, did you?" Her eyes roamed low, appraising. He suddenly found himself wondering over the state of his smallclothes, suspecting she could somehow see them, even beneath his mail.

"Alistair of the Grey Wardens, allow me to present Isabela, captain of the Siren's Call, queen of the Eastern Seas and the sharpest blade in Llomerryn."

"A Grey Warden?" She arched a delicate brow.

"A pirate?"

The woman turned to Leliana.

"I… I have heard stories."

Isabela pursed her lips. "And they intrigue you, do they?"

"Very much so, yes."

"Mmm." Her smile turned languid, eyes narrowing. "Perhaps we can discuss them later… sweet thing."

That gaze returned to Alistair. "Now, Zev. Is there a reason you have brought me such… delightful company?" No. Forget the mail. Those eyes could peel off his very skin.

"Our dear Warden has been challenged to a duel. One that he is certain to lose, I am afraid."

"Hey!"

Isabela, though, had stepped close, running a hand along his arm and up his shoulder as she circled round. He felt the lump rising in his throat.

"He is strong, fights with brute force. Effective, in its way. But I am afraid that he lacks the required… finesse."

"As I have been telling him. And I have also been able to do little about the hair, sadly."

"Hey!"

Isabela stepped back with an appraising nod. "Still, it would be a waste to see the end of such a pretty thing. I will do what I can. But there is, of course, a price."

"Right. Of course there is."

She tilted her head as she blinked up at him, feigning some approximation of sweetness. "I merely wish to get to know something of my student. Let us have a game, a test of skill." Bending to the table, she retrieved a deck of cards, running them deftly between her fingers.

"Yeah. All right."

"Alistair…" Zevran nodded apologetically to the woman. "…if I may have a word?" He steered him forcefully to a nearby corner.

"What?"

"You will not win against Isabela. No one does."

"So what should I—?"

"—There are other options, my friend. She is a woman of varied… appetites."

Alistair goggled. "What? You… you can't really be suggesting that I…?" Glancing over the elf's shoulder, he saw Leliana deep in conversation with the woman, the pirate's hand lingering against her arm. He moved quick, closing the gap to wrap an arm round Leliana's waist.

"Alistair!"

Isabela chuckled.

"I… uh… I thank you for the offer. But I… I think I'll take my chances."

The woman shrugged, lips pursing in bemused disappointment. "Luck be with you, then."

Still he held to Leliana, dragging her toward the door. "Zevran. Let's go."

"If it is all the same to you, my friend, I think that I will stay." Folding his arms, he leaned against the wall beside Isabela.

"Can I trust you to come back?"

"Do not worry." He grinned. "I would not miss the show."

* * *

The day was warming as they made their way back to the marketplace. Wynne rejoined them after a time, pouches loaded with recent purchases. Herbs and potions, she said. Absolutely essential. Still, the purse at Alistair's side felt noticeably lighter.

But they had come here for a reason. Pausing before the door, Alistair sighed. It hadn't taken many questions to find the home; Genitivi was well-known, even if their inquires had drawn a few odd looks. He supposed any man who spent his life searching for the Urn would seem a bit mad… And what then of those who pinned their hopes on a madman?

The pitted wood rattled beneath his knock. Once, twice, a third time. Alistair had half-turned when the door cracked, one narrowed eye visible in the gap.

"Can I help you?"

"Brother Genitivi?"

"No…" The speaker paused, curious. "I am his assistant… Weylon."

"Weylon. We need to find Brother Genitivi. It's about the Urn."

The man must have been short, peering up at him through shadowed eyes. "He is not in."

"Can you tell us where he is?"

His gaze seemed to shift, squinting along the street in either direction.

"Can we come in? Would that be better?"

"Are you one of them? Came they did, but I drove them off, called the guards. Still… not safe. They think it's theirs, theirs alone. Brother… Brother Genitivi…he went… But I fear there is no hope…"

"We have called upon a dead man. I fail to see how this is helpful."

Alistair glared up at Sten before turning back to the cowering scholar. "Where did he go?"

The man blinked out at them, distrustful still. After a moment, he shook his head. "His research… led him to a village called Haven, high in the Frostback Mountains."

"Haven. Right. Thank you. If he's there, we'll find him."

Weylon only glared a moment more before slamming shut the door.

By now the sun had nearly reached its peak, glaring bright across the rooftops of the market. Alistair sighed.

"You plan to go to this… Haven." Sten fell into step beside him.

"Can we argue about it later, maybe? I'm a little busy at the moment."

"Very well. If you survive." The big man lengthened his stride.

"I'm glad somebody finds this funny!" He shook his head. "Maker's breath…"

But Leliana was at his elbow now, tilting her head with a wondering pout. "And what was that about?"

"Oh, the usual. Sten wants me dead."

She chuckled but quieted quickly, stilling her features. "Not that. Back at the Pearl."

"What was what?"

"The… rescue. You practically threw me over your shoulder and dragged me out of there like a piece of meat."

"Oh. I'm… sorry?"

Resolve cracking, she let herself smile. "A sweet gesture, but I _can_ take care of myself, you know."

"It was Isabela. And something Zevran said. I… I just didn't like the way she was looking at you, I guess."

"Oh? Is there a reason she should she not look at me?"

Alistair sighed. "'Cause she's… well, you don't know what she was thinking."

"Of course I do. Did you not think that perhaps that I was trying to help? To smooth things along?"

"_'Smooth things along'_? By flirting?"

"Why not?"

"Well… she-she's a woman, for one."

"And women cannot flirt? She is quite beautiful, you know. Strong, confident… Why would I not?"

Alistair skidded to a stop, blinking down at her. "What?"

Giggling, she leaned up to place a lingering kiss on his cheek, slipping an easy arm through his.

"I really don't want to know, do I?"

"Oh, I don't know. Marjolaine – the woman who trained me to be a bard… Once she and I were caught in a terrible storm. We found shelter beneath some bushes, but we were already soaked to the skin and freezing and…" She was watching him, he realized, smile turning wicked.

Alistair quirked a brow. "…Wet frocks?"

"Perhaps. But that is a story for another time, no?"

"I think I'm starting to see why bards are so popular."

As they approached the alleyway, Zevran fell into step beside them. If possible, his grin was wider than usual.

"Had fun did you?"

He tsked. "You insulted our dear Isabela. Something had to be done to soothe her wounds. Many things, in fact."

"Yeeah… Sorry I missed that."

"As am I."

The knight was already waiting when they arrived. There were others at his back, similarly armored and scowling just as deeply.

"I thought this was supposed to be a duel."

"They are merely here to see justice served. Hold your… _people_ back and they shall do the same."

Swinging the shield from his back, Alistair shrugged it into place. "You do know that Loghain quit the field, right? Left Cailan _and_ the Wardens to die?"

"Do you deny that the king was in the Warden's charge?"

"No, but—"

The knight unsheathed his blade, one foot falling over the other as he circled. "—Then defend yourself."

"I still don't see how _killing you_ will prove that I'm not a murder…"

With a grunt, the man threw himself forward, sword singing in a low arc. Alistair ducked, blocking, but already he had darted aside, balance and speed belying his age.

"Look. Could we just maybe—"

"—Spare me your lies!" Again he spun, blade rebounding off of Alistair's shield.

"Guess not." He ducked low, deflecting again, using the momentum to slip past the turned blade. The shield's edge took the knight hard in the chest, Alistair's own blade coming round to slice behind his thigh. The plate was weaker there, the old man's gasp bitten beneath a scowl.

"Well struck, ser."

"Had enough then?"

Smiling now, the knight spat. "Would that I could have given my life that day, could give it now to see the Wardens pay. But if I have to settle for you, so be it."

Again, they struck; again, they parried. He could not say how long the minutes stretched, how many times they stirred the dust with their circling. His shield was growing heavy, but he could see the other man wearying as well. Skilled or not, Alistair was still the younger man. The longer this went on, the more the scales would tip.

With a sigh he threw his weight behind the blow, shield taking the old knight in hip, chest and shoulder. The sword clattered from his hand, legs buckling as he sank to his knees. As Alistair's sword came round to rest against his throat, there was a small smile there.

"The day is yours, ser."

None of the other knights made as if to move. A few were already walking away. Glancing over his shoulder, Alistair looked to the others. Sten and Zevran both nodded; even Leliana gave him a resigned smile.

With a shake of his head Alistair sheathed his blade, bending to offer the man an arm.

The knight only blinked at it, scowling suspiciously. "Mercy, then?"

"Something to remember next time you decide to call Grey Wardens murders." When the knight made no move to take his hand he shrugged, turning to the others. "Let's go."


	12. Haven

"Now we will speak."

Alistair stopped short as the Qunari stepped round, blocking the path. They had not gone far from Denerim, following the low road as it snaked south cross the Bannorn. According to the aged map that he had bought, Haven lay somewhere high in the Frostback Mountains, near the range's southern edge. The shopkeeper had had to seek out the faded parchment; the village didn't appear on newer maps at all.

Raising his eyes to Sten's, he quirked a brow. "Oh _now_ is it? Here I thought we might wait a bit, discuss it over a nice cup of tea."

As he moved to sidestep him, the big man lay a hand against his chest. Alistair blinked down at it, feeling the welling frustration, the sleepless nights overtake him at last. "Move. That's an order."

"No."

"Okay then. Move. Or else."

The sigh was almost a chuckle. "I should fear your mercy?"

"Oh, what? Because I didn't kill that knight, you're going to make fun of me?"

"You turn your back on your enemies. Now you turn it on the archdemon."

"I told you Arl Eamon can help us." Folding his arms, Alistair scowled.

"I am no nursemaid. I swore only to help you stop the Blight."

"Way I remember it, you swore to follow me so I'd let you out of that cage. Maybe I should have left you in there."

"Perhaps."

"But I didn't. So you'll follow me. To Haven. Or until I don't have any use for you."

The others had paused now on the path ahead, watching in silence. Zevran's eyes narrowed.

Leliana, though, stepped forward, laying a hand on his arm. "Alistair, what are you—?"

It rose on the air, the howl echoing, piercing, mournful. In the deepening dusk it prickled, that familiar certainty, the faint cry of a dying scream. Looking up at the big man, Alistair shook his head. "Hold that thought."

Ahead the road curved, cutting between the hills. The others followed as he ran, stopping at the broken barricade, blinking out across the narrow clearing. More barricades there were, the branching paths blocked with crates and wagons, a settlement of some sort.

Crouching, Leliana disarmed an unseen tripwire. "Bandits. A trap for refugees making their way to Denerim."

"Then what did this?"

Bandits there were and in abundance but they lay silent, scattered, weapons still to hand. Dead to a man.

"Darkspawn, perhaps." Morrigan moved behind him. "'Tis no concern of ours."

Leliana and Zevran had already moved into the camp, begun sifting through the crates.

But still Alistair felt... unsettled. "A trap for us, too. But something cleared the way."

"What makes you think that?" Wynne stood now at his elbow, openly curious.

He ran a sheepish hand through his hair. "Just a feeling, I guess. I think I might be going mad, actually."

She chuckled, patting distractedly at his arm. "There are many things that even the Circle does not understand. It is not wrong to indulge the occasional bit of madness, I think."

"Right. What does that even—?"

The howl again. Closer now, just around the bend. Moving quick, Alistair slipped between the wagons.

It hulked there, the last bandit falling still as it buried its face against his neck. The same mabari, he was sure of it this time. Raising its head, it tensed, lips twitching in a rumbling snarl. Alistair remembered then to be afraid, realized that his fate was being weighed in those eyes. After a moment it blinked, darting into the hills.

"Is that the same dog from Redcliff?" Leliana watched it go.

"I-I think so."

The whispered chuckle sent him spinning round, meeting Wynne's thin-lipped smile. "You have a guardian of your own, it seems."

But there was another sound now, the whimper plaintive, pained, human. Crouching to a nearby wagon, Alistair helped the man to his feet.

"Thank you! Oh Maker, thank you! The bandits and then that-that _thing_…"

"You're not a bandit?"

He seemed to straighten at that, running smoothing hands over his close-cropped hair. "Of course not. My name is Faryn. Merchant by trade. Slightly used weapons and armor are my specialty."

"Faryn. Why does that sound—?"

The blow knocked him aside, hand going to his sword before he saw Sten. The big man had the merchant pinned hard against the wagon, his back bending over the side as the Qunari pressed him back.

"Sten?"

"This is the… scavenger that the other spoke of. He names himself."

"Ah, right. Thought it sounded familiar." He moved behind him, holding up a cautious hand. "But do you think you could maybe… take a break from the looming and threatening? It's not really necessary."

"But strikingly effective." Zevran quirked a brow, nodding to the merchant's trousers.

Sten released him, but still stood close. "My sword. Where is it?"

To his credit, Faryn seemed more curious than petrified. "You're one of them giants."

Sten leaned closer. "My sword."

"Right. Yes." The merchant stepped back, butting up against the wagon. "Sold it. To a dwarf named Dwyn. Outta Redcliff."

"Redcliff."

"See?" Alistair tried a smile. "We're going there anyway. We'll get the Urn and then—"

Sten turned with a grunt, starting up the path.

"Hey! Where are you going?"

"Redcliff."

"And how is that any different than—? You can't!"

Still he did not look back. "Stop me."

Alistair's mouth worked once, twice, but the big man's long strides had already taken him round the bend and out of sight. Sinking back against the wagon, he let his chin sink to his chest.

* * *

The wind had started in the foothills, stinging, biting, freezing. He had begun to doubt that Haven even existed. The map was beyond ancient; maybe the whole place had been wiped away in a storm or an avalanche or something.

Slowing, he fell into step beside Wynne, huddled deep in her hood against the cold.

"You okay?"

He could imagine the unseen smile as she chuckled. "I am well enough."

"Need a rest or anything? I mean, we could stop, make a fire – you know – maybe even turn back."

The shadowed cowl turned toward him, seeming to regard him for a long moment. "You're asking my permission? Or looking for an excuse?"

Alistair shrugged, reaching up to pull his own hood low. "Maybe. I don't know. I just thought we'd get there by now."

"And you felt the need to nag me about it."

He laughed despite himself.

"You were certain that this is the right path. Have a little faith in that certainty."

"Faith, huh? You're not going to suggest we recite the Chant or something are you?"

"Goodness, no." The shapeless hood shook.

"So you're not…?"

"You are confusing faith with religion. It is possible to have one without the other."

"Aha. The Chantry-hating mage comes out."

"I do not hate the Chantry. Not as some do. And I have known many among the Sisters, among the Brothers, as you would imagine. They have done what they think necessary, but there is truth there… and goodness."

"Right. Actually, there was something I wanted to ask you, if you don't mind."

She nodded.

"When you… when we saw the mabari, you said something about a guardian of my own. What did you mean by that?"

"You said you have seen the beast before, seen it fight at your side."

"Yeah. And the 'my own' part? You meant that there are others, didn't you? Other guardians."

"Long have I thought so." There was a smile behind the words. "This sense that you have… some, like your friend Leliana, call it the Maker's hand. We mages have another theory. There are many things in the Fade, benevolent as well as evil. Spirits as well as abominations."

"So my guardian spirit is a man-eating dog?"

She laughed. "No, your man-eating dog is a man-eating dog. But perhaps there are other forces at work. I myself have felt them. Even since I was a little girl, I have from time to time felt… something watching me."

"Creepy."

"In a way. But it has grown stronger in times of trouble, during my Harrowing, for example. Light, warmth, a vague sense that everything will be okay."

"And do you feel it now?"

"Yes, faintly."

"Right. So we've got a feral mabari and a vague spirit-thing. Look out archdemon, here we come!"

Again, she chuckled, leaning against his arm as the road grew steep. After a time it seemed to level off, the snow lessening as the buildings rose before them. Haven it must have been, but the town seemed abandoned.

He hadn't seen the guard leaning against a nearby building, his cough impatient as he moved to block the path. "And what do you want?"

"Is this Haven?"

The man only scowled.

"Look, we're looking for a man. Brother Genitivi?"

"Never heard of him."

"Could we, well… could we look for him?"

"We don't appreciate outsiders poking round."

"Well, is there maybe an inn? A shop or something? We've been climbing for quite a while."

The man sighed, finally stepping aside. "Trade in the shop if you like, but don't cause any trouble."

Stepping past, Alistair glanced back. "Where is everyone?"

"They'll be in the Chantry. Not to be disturbed."

The buildings were silent as they passed, shuttered against the cold. Once out of sight of the guardsman, Alistair sheepishly tried a door. Shaking her head, Leliana shouldered him aside, bending to the lock.

Zevran leaned against the wall beside them. "Ahh… quiet, insular communities; always something nasty going on behind closed doors. I hope it involves chains. I hope they ask me to join in."

Leliana giggled.

"Do you have to encourage him?"

"Actually, my friend, I think you will find that I am quite incorrigible."

The house was dark within, but the smell was unmistakable. Death. And new.

"Morrigan."

Huddled in her robes, she made no response.

"Morrigan!"

Cowl slipping, she glared up at him. Her arms were folded beneath her robes, the familiar book cradled there. But there was something more than irritation behind her eyes, something almost like surprise.

"You've been reading that the whole time?"

"With the pace you are setting, I have had no other chance."

"To read your mother's creepy – whatchacallit?"

"Grimoire. And yes." Still she watched him, eyes narrowing.

"Is there a reason that you're looking at me like I've grown a second head?"

"Only examining the deficiencies in the first one."

"Right. Great."

Zevran's voice echoed from within the house. "Knights. Dead ones. And quite messy."

"It's an _evil_ hidden village, then?"

He stepped back into the light, shaking his head. "So it would appear."

"The guard said that everyone was in the Chantry. I guess we'll head there."

"I shall remain here."

Alistair whirled back to Morrigan, mouth agape. After a moment, he shook his head. "Not that I don't think you'd be right at home, but why?"

"As I said, I have much to study. Much to… contemplate."

"Fine. Have it your way."

"You should not go either." Her arms were folded now, pressing the book to her chest. "The risk is unnecessary."

"Wow. Concern. Thanks. But we have to find the Urn."

"Send the others."

"And do what? Stay here with you? In a house full of corpses?"

Zevran chuckled. "Romantic in its way, no?"

"You're not helping." Alistair shook his head. "Morrigan, stay. Maybe whoever did this will come back and you can annoy them for a while. Y'know, terminally."

The others followed as he made his way up the hill, making for the looming Chantry above. Glancing back he saw Morrigan watching still, tilting her head with that same maddening expression. "And stop looking at me like that!"


	13. The Ruined Temple

"Singing from inside the Chantry. The entire town, by the sound of it."

Cresting the ridge beside Zevran, Alistair shook his head. "Yeeeah... not creepy at all."

"It is 'creepy' to show one's devotion to the Maker?" Leliana stood now at his other side but the comment was distracted, her gaze fixed on the lone and looming building.

"No, but if my house was full of corpses I think I might – y'know – _get rid of them_ before strolling off to evening services."

She only shrugged.

The singing stopped as they pushed aside the doors, the handful of people gathered in the nave turning with uniform glares. One among them pushed forward, scowl deepening.

"We had heard that there were outsiders in the village. And now you disturb the very sanctity of our worship."

"Um. Sorry? We're just… looking for something."

He smiled at that, lips twisting crooked. "As were we all, once. I am Revered Father Eirik. Tell me, have you come to join with us, to bear witness to Her risen glory?"

"Wait… Revered _Father_? Priests are women."

Wynne moved to stand at his side. "It was not always so. In the early days of the Chantry there were Reverends as well as Mothers."

The man gave her a gracious nod.

Alistair, though, looked sideways, whispering beneath his breath. "Please stop talking to the crazy people."

Eirik's laugh was hoarse, echoing. "She, too, was thought mad. But we are Her chosen, our duty sacred."

"And that duty included killing those knights, I take it?"

"Thieves and treasure hunters." He scoffed. "Failure to protect Her would be the greater sin. All will be forgiven!"

The others were moving behind him now, drawing simple swords and short blades. Still, Alistair found himself hesitating. "They're just… confused, right? The townspeople… I mean, we could—"

"—Unless that confusion extends to which end is the pointy one, my friend, I think the time for talk is over." Zevran darted sideways, ducking low as one of the men lunged forward.

The Reverend had retreated, slipping behind the pulpit, hands working in familiar patterns.

"Wynne!"

But the others were on them now, the air crackling hot and cold and electric as the mages traded unseen blows. Alistair's shield took one of the townsmen in the chin, his blade sweeping round to take another beneath the knees. Even in the close hall Leliana's bow sang out, deftly sidestepping one of the hard-eyed women as she sank to her knees. She turned now toward the others, lips moving in a half-heard song as she steadied her sights. Soon enough only Eirik remained, the arrow taking him in the side of the neck as he slumped half-frozen to the floor.

Sheathing his blade Alistair moved to Leliana's side, hand falling over hers as she hesitantly lowered the bow. "Was _that_ a song of devotion, then?"

She seemed to shake herself, lips twitching in something of a smile. "Not exactly."

Zevran slipped behind them, clucking his tongue. "Dear Leliana, such violence! And in the Chantry itself! What would your Sisters think?"

"They would understand."

"What? No punishment? Flogging? Perhaps a vicious pillow fight?"

"No."

"Alas. And to think I once longed to be a Brother."

Alistair turned to see Wynne standing cross the room, blinking at the blank, stone wall. "Um… Wynne? Are you all ri—?"

Her staff rapped three times in quick succession, the wall shuddering as it slid aside.

"Oh. Right."

She arched a brow as he moved to her side. "If you think to find me addled, I fear you'll have quite some time to wait."

"Is-is someone there?" The moan echoed as they slipped through the low door. It was a small room, cramped with half-empty bookshelves, the single, low table lit by a row of wavering candles. A man lay on his back in the middle of the floor, twisting his head to peer up at them. He winced, settling again with a sigh.

"Brother Genitivi?"

"Mmm. And who might you be?"

"I'm Alistair. I've been looking for you. I… I'm here to help."

Again the old man shifted, leveling an elbow beneath him. Leliana bent to his side, helping him into a sitting position. "You are injured."

"Only my leg. But it isn't important now."

Wynne tsked, shouldering Alistair aside to crouch beside Leliana. After a moment, she shook her head. "The wound is old. There is little to be done now."

"Really, it's no matter. Not when I'm so close."

Alistair blinked. "The Urn? You found it?"

"Yes… or at least discovered its location. There is a temple above the village. Eirik and the others… they considered themselves its guardians." He was watching Alistair with a curious expression. "I take it they are dead?"

"Yeah. They're dead."

The nod was without expression, without satisfaction. Still, his eyes glinted eager. "And how do you know of the Urn?"

"It's why we were looking for you, actually. We need the ashes to heal a sick man. Arl Eamon, the arl of Redcliff."

"Eamon? He is well liked, as I hear. A good man." Again he struggled, Leliana bending to help him to his feet. "If you make it to the Urn, you need take only a single pinch."

"'_If_' we make it?"

"I have seen many men during my… detention here. More than the village could support and most heavily armed. I can only assume they reside in the temple. And the Urn itself is said to be guarded by a series of tests—"

"—Tests? Or traps?"

There was a tired smile there. "Take your pick. They were made to weed out the unworthy."

"Great. And how do I know if I'm worthy?"

Genitivi's grin broadened. "Only the tests will tell. I must admit, I am curious to see."

"Are you sure you can… make it? I mean with the leg and the…"

Wynne sighed.

"Does that often, does he?" Genitivi chuckled. "But you are right. I am an old man, and injured. I will take you as far as the doors, show you how to open them. The rest is up to you."

"Of course it is."

* * *

"How do they know?"Alistair's blade swung round, his balance almost faltering as he stepped back.

"What?" He glanced over his shoulder at Leliana, saw her glare for the distraction as she sighted along her bow.

"Us… them…" Putting his weight behind the swing, he lunged forward. "How do they know which of us to try and eat?"

She chuckled, one of the cultists doubling round his pierced belly. The drake before Alistair reared, neck snaking low as its teeth raked cross his shield. But the sword plunged home, the creature's bulk flopping heavy as he stepped away. Working the stiffness from his arm, Alistair sheathed his blade.

"I'm just saying. You'd think they could maybe turn on the occasional bad guy."

"Maybe they do."

"Yeah." Crouching beside the beast, Alistair pulled a dagger from his belt, slicing free a length of scale. Already his pack was growing heavy, the bottom already soaked through with the stink of it. "Ew."

Leliana quirked a brow. "Tell me why you're doing this again?"

"Drake scales. They're valuable."

"Hush, my dear." Zevran slipped behind Leliana, resting a hand on her shoulder. "Let us not reopen old wounds."

Alistair snorted. "Yeah right."

"We shall all miss him, my friend. His smile, his songs, the way he used to dance…"

"Please shut up."

Zevran grinned.

"Sten taught you to do that?" Leliana lay a hand on his arm, hesitating only a moment for the filth.

"Yeah. Doesn't matter though. He's gone. Big deal."

"I am glad to know you would be so… untroubled by losing one of us." She folded her arms.

"Hey-hey! I didn't say that! Well, maybe Zevran…"

At the elf's mocking bow, something of her smile returned.

Wynne, though, was waiting at the edge of the next tunnel. She leaned heavy on her staff, eyes already searching the darkness ahead. As they moved past, Alistair thought he heard her sigh.

The room ahead opened wide and bright, light streaming down from the cracks in the roof. They must have reached it, the top of the temple at last. But it seemed they were expected.

"You!" The man was broad and heavily armored, the axe at his back clanging as he strode forward. "You have defiled our temple, slaughtered our young! Speak now or we will see you pay!"

"You attacked us! You—wait… '_young_?'"

"Her holy children! The blood of the arisen Andraste!"

Alistair found himself backing slowing away. "Oookay. Riiight..."

"Andraste is dead." Leliana was at his shoulder now. "She died for all of us."

"And now she has returned! In a form more resplendent than ever before!"

"That is… not possible."

The man was grinning now. "Were you to repent for what you have done here, she may grant you mercy, let you look upon her for yourselves."

"And _Andraste_ is… where exactly?"

He turned back to Alistair. "She waits above her temple, tied still to her mortal remains, unable to fully realize her true glory!"

"The ashes? They're here?"

"In the temple. But we have been unable to reach them."

"Yeah. The tests. I know."

"And yet you would face them?" The man's eyes glinted wild. "You would be Andraste's champion?"

"I… uh… I need the ashes to cure a sick man."

"Yes, yes, fine. Take what you need. But the rest must be destroyed!"

"Destroyed?" Leliana stepped round, making for the man. Even Wynne had stiffened. Grabbing Leliana's arm, Alistair pulled her close.

"Of course." The man nodded. "She cannot be truly realize her new form so long as they exist."

"Yeah, you said that." Alistair shook his head. "This – uh – _form_…?"

He smiled. "Some might call her a dragon, but she is so much more!"

"Right. Was afraid of that."

"So you will help us?"

"Help you—? Help you destroy a holy relic so a dead woman can come back as a dragon?"

The man barely blinked.

"Okay. Not having me on then... Err, thanks for the offer, but no."

"What?" His eyes narrowed dangerously, hand moving for his axe. "You would slaughter her chosen, her children and still spurn the Holy Andraste's mercy?" He turned round, raising his arms to the others. "Destroy them! In Andraste's name, kill them all!"

He came on in a whirl, the axe swinging in a wide arc. There must have been half a dozen others in the chamber, all moving now, circling and precise. Genitivi had been right; the villagers were nothing to these. Why were the craziest ones always the most heavily armed?

Alistair ducked, struck, ducked again, moving with the familiar rhythm of Leliana's bow, Wynne's crackling spells. He caught a glimpse of Zevran at his side, twisting to press their backs together as the assassin darted and slipped away again.

Soon enough it was over, only the light stirring, the doors at the chamber's end seeming to loom. He didn't wait for the others.

They opened onto a plateau. It was high, but still the mountain loomed above, broken stone and toppled columns hanging over the endless chasm below. There had been a grand temple here once but, away across the clearing, only one door seemed to remain.

"I guess that's it then."

Still the others looked round, Zevran scanning the peaks above.

"You don't actually think there's a dragon up here?"

"One cannot be too careful, my friend. Perhaps we should proceed with caution?"

"And do what? Sneak around it?

"Yes."

Alistair squinted, seeing nothing but low-hanging cloud. Moving cross the broken stone, he crouched. "If this much of the temple is destroyed, who's to say the ashes will still even be here?"

"You have brought us this far." Wynne stepped behind him, shaking her head. "It does not seem right that they would not be."

"Yeah." There was a shield here, discarded atop a pile a splintered wood. The markings were strange, the metal surprisingly thin. He ran his finger along its edge as he straightened.

"Alistair!" Leliana turned, darting cross the rooftop. "That's—"

With a shrug, he tossed it aside, the clang echoing as it hit the stone. It teetered there, on the edge of the chasm, the sound seeming to reverberate high into the peaks as it toppled over the cliff.

She crashed into him too late, the wince already deepening as he hunched. "That was a gong!"

"Yeah, but what was it doing here?"

The air stirred, his eyes pinching shut. Maker's breath…

Its claws scrapped the stone, rock tumbling from the peaks above as it perched on one and then the next. Landing in the clearing at last, its wings flexed, tail curling beneath it. A dragon. A _high_ dragon. And he had summoned it.

"So… Andraste?"

The dragon leaned low, letting out a steaming hiss.

"Right. Didn't think so."

The rumble gave only a moment's warning, the gout of flame sending them scattering. Leliana rolled behind a toppled column, bow already drawn. Zevran was already snaking close, diving aside as the dragon's tail whipped round. Wynne, though, stood still upon the broken bridge, staff raised as the air grew cold. Her eyes narrowed as she chanted, focused, ready, unafraid.

Alistair remained crouched, keeping his shield balanced from hip to shoulder. Maker, it was big. But whatever Wynne was doing seemed to be slowing it; Zevran was able to get near enough to sink his blades into one of the legs before a kick sent him sprawling. Alistair ducked low as it turned, leaping to strike at the thinner scales of its belly. Again and again he struck, darting away as its claws scraped searching cross the stone. He could see Leliana standing now, see the faint steam of cold rising from the barbed-tipped arrow as it sailed above his head. The dragon reeled, neck thrashing, the shot apparently having struck home. He could see Wynne sliding cross the broken stone toward them, felt the arm linked through his – Zevran or Leliana, he couldn't be sure – pulling him forcefully out of the way as it fell.

But he turned, blinking down at the creature as it twitched and stilled, unable to look away. They had done it. A high dragon and they had—

"—Alistair!"

The jaws moved, its eyes fluttering. All he saw was flame.

She collapsed against him, the fire arcing round, sputtering against the unseen shield. Zevran moved quick, leaping onto the beast's neck to deliver the final, plunging blow. But Wynne's knees buckled, caught in Alistair's arms, the magic flickering as it died. Slowly he moved with her, lowering her, wincing as his hands found the blistered flesh of her back.

"Wynne!"

Her head lolled against his chest, the rasping chuckle steaming in the cold. "It looks like you… will have to… mend your own shirts now…"

"What? No! Hey, don't talk like—"

He lifted her, rocking on his heels, pressing her closer against him. But he saw the expression on Zevran's face as he blinked down at her back, saw the tears threatening behind Leliana's eyes.

"Wynne!"

The word echoed as he lowered her, head settling against his knees. She looked past him now, eyes growing distant, but there was nothing… nothing but the empty peaks, the low-hanging cloud.

"Wynne?"

Staring still, her eyes grew dark. Staring still, she smiled.


	14. The Gauntlet

"Alistair."

He blinked, wondering at the sting of cold against his cheeks. Right. The mountain. The Urn. But there was warmth here, thin and fading beneath his hands. Wynne. Still she lay across his lap, eyes distant and glazed as he rocked her against his chest.

"Alistair." Leliana crouched, tilting her head as he gazed down at the old woman. After a moment she reached out a hand, brushing gentle fingers across her eyes. "We have to go."

He shook his head.

Her hand was warm against his cheek, cupping insistent, raising his face to hers. Long she held him there, gaze searching, pleading. "It is time."

"Come, my friend." Zevran was beside him now, gently lifting Wynne from his arms as Leliana pulled him to his feet. The elf paused a moment before settling her, smoothing her robes, brushing a fallen strand of grey from her forehead as he straightened.

"We can't… we can't leave her here."

"Nor can we take her into the temple, not if what the Brother said is true."

"The temple." He looked to it now, the high columns, the doors waiting cross the mountaintop. "The ashes!" Leliana winced as his grip tightened on her arm. "We'll get the ashes! We can heal her!"

"Alistair…" Her brow knitted as she blinked up at him. "The ashes… they cannot heal the dead. She's… dead, Alistair."

"And it's my fault."

"No—"

He held up a forestalling hand. "_I_ brought her here. _I_ made her fight. _I_ summoned the dragon."

Something twitched behind her lips. "I doubt you _made_ her do anything. She came of her own will. She left the Tower when she could have stayed, came here when she could have remained behind with Morrigan. And whatever she did… at the end… that was her choice. So that you could find the Urn."

Still Alistair stood gazing down at her, her face stiff and cold but somehow stern even now. "We'll come back. I'll carry her down myself if I have to."

Leliana nodded, twining her fingers through his. Together, they made their way across the mountaintop.

The doors were larger than they had seemed from a distance, looming even against the overhanging stone. Alistair found himself turning round as they approached, taking in the columns, the carvings, the strange and growing silence.

"It is… beautiful." Leliana followed his gaze.

"I was going to go with 'imposing,' but I suppose you could put it that way."

She smiled up at him, but there was too much relief in those eyes. He glanced away, turning instead to the waiting doors.

The room beyond might have been resplendent once, but the walls were crumbled, discarded bits of stone and pottery crunching underfoot. Zevran stood just behind him, silent still.

"What? No witty remark? Something about treasure?"

He sighed. "I suppose it does remind me of the grand cleric's bedchamber. Where no man has gone before." The smile didn't reach his eyes.

"Right."

But they were not alone. He stood at the far end of the chamber, stiff and watching. The armor was strange, but fine and gleaming, his nod slow and deep.

"Um. Hi."

"And where is the fourth?" The man's whisper was thick, rumbling. "Where is the one that would lead you?"

"Wynne? She's… she's dead. The dragon. But she didn't lead us. That… that's me, I guess."

"Hmm." He tilted his head. "I see many things. It has been a long while since I was… surprised."

"Yeah, it surprised me too." Alistair ran a hand through his hair. "But who are you, exactly?"

"Once I fought for Her against the Tevinter Imperium. I will see Her guarded until they are destroyed."

"The Tevinter…? So, been here long then?"

"Yes."

"We… uh… we need the ashes to cure a sick man."

The Guardian nodded. "They have that power. You may approach the Urn, taking only a pinch for your purpose. But first you must be proven worthy."

"So I have to… fight you or something?"

"No. The Gauntlet was set long ago." His sigh was heavy. "It is given to me to see many things. I would only ask a question before you begin."

"…Alright."

"Alistair of the Grey Wardens, you are often uncertain of your actions. You feel it more keenly than others. And yet there is one decision that plagues you still, even though it was not wholly yours to make. The Grey Warden Duncan was as a father to you. Do you regret not being at his side when the final blow fell?"

"Wow, you really…?" After a moment, he shook his head. "Yes. Yes... if only I could have been there, maybe I could have… I don't know, done _something_."

The Guardian nodded. "And you, Leliana… It is know that the Maker spoke to Andraste, that he has never spoken so to another. Yet you believe your visions to be his guided by his hand. Do believe yourself her equal?"

She gaped. "Her… equal?"

"Your life as a bard was exciting, but in the Chantry you were no one. The visions allowed you to be special once more."

"You-you think I did it… _for attention_?"

"Do you?"

"No, no I do not." She folded her arms, rocking back on her heels.

"And the Antivan elf."

"Oh, is it my turn now?" Zevran rolled his eyes, but there was a stiffness to his shoulders. "Hurrah, I'm so excited."

"Many have died at your hands, but there is perhaps none that you regret more than a woman by the name of—?"

He snorted, cutting him off.

"Do you regret—?"

"—Yes." His eyes narrowed. "Yes, I do. Can we move on?"

"Yes." The Guardian turned aside, ushering them into the hall beyond.

Alistair watched him for a long moment, finding nothing behind that expressionless and eternal gaze. "So… any hints? Y'know, about the tests?"

Slowly, he shook his head.

"Right. Okay then."

The room beyond was immense, the path stretching long and lined to either side with carved and crumbling arches. Beneath each stood a figure, luminous and pale, eyes turning as one to watch them. Alistair stopped.

Leliana, though, strode forward, tilting her head as she paused before the first woman. "Oh, you poor dear."

He caught her up, laying a hand on her arm. "Maybe we shouldn't be talking to the spooky ghost things?"

But the woman seemed to shiver, turning blank and expressionless eyes to him. "Echoes from a shadow realm, whispers of things yet to come. Thought's strange sister dwells in night, is swept away by dawning light."

"Echoes from a what?"

"It's a riddle!" Leliana turned to him with a wide eyed grin. "Dreams, she speaks of dreams."

The woman nodded, seeming to solidify before disappearing altogether.

"Oh, how fun! Answer the riddles correctly and the doors will open."

"Fun. Yeah, fun…" He quirked a brow, but she was already moving to the next spirit. Watching her go, he shook his head.

Zevran was still standing near the entrance, arms folded as he scowled. Alistair leaned against the wall beside him.

"So… what the Guardian said…?"

"Hmm?"

"About regret. You actually have emotions, then?"

The chuckle was little more than a whispered hiss.

"And the woman…?"

"Why do you ask?"

He shrugged. "Just curious, really."

"Such touching concern. Shall I tell you of my tearful tale? Rest my head against your shoulder as I confess that I regret it all?"

"Right. Maybe not."

They lapsed into silence, watching the spirits nod and drift away. Soon enough Leliana reached the far end of the room, turning to wave them on.

Zevran sighed. "Perhaps another time, my friend."

Beyond the doors, the corridor forked almost immediately, mirrored turns branching to the left and right. But again the way was blocked, the figure at the crossroads standing with his back to them. Alistair might have thought him the Guardian unarmored, the same broad shoulders, the same proud stance of a soldier tempered long ago. But his hair was long and graying, tied in a familiar knot, the deep-lined smile breaking as he turned round.

"Alistair."

"Duncan?"

"So it is to be specters of our past, now?" Zevran's hand had strayed to his blades, but he seemed to sag, eyes darting expectant.

"Alistair." The old Warden nodded. "It is good to see you again."

"But I… at Ostagar… you…"

"Died?" He chuckled. "It is as it was meant to be."

"But why did you send me away? I could have—"

"There is much that could have been different, but sending you to the tower was the right choice. One of the few that was left to us, I think. But you are here now and that is proof enough."

"Right. One Grey Warden against the Blight."

There was a sad smile there as he shook his head. "It is unfortunate. But perhaps you are not so alone as you think." He wavered as the others had, seeming to shimmer and grow solid before fading altogether.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Leliana slipped an arm through his as they made their way round the corner. "I think he meant us."

"Yeah? Like how I killed Wynne? Drove Sten off? Now all I've got is you and an assassin who would stab me in the back as soon as—"

He leapt from the shadows of the next room, blade passing only inches from Alistair's nose. Again the specter spun, seeming to trail light and shadow, lunging with a familiar smirk.

"No, my friend. It seems I would stab you in the front." Zevran was behind him still, moving round to meet the other elf, chuckling as he saw his grin mirrored there.

Great. Two Zevrans. That was just what he needed. But the other was stepping back, shifting, only half real. Across the room, he heard the familiar twang of the bow, looking up just in time to see a scowling Leliana loose in his direction. The real one had already drawn her blades, dashing cross the stones to meet the doppelganger. That only left…

Alistair got his shield up just in time, turning the blade as his own reflection lunged. Right. Face your past, face yourself. But there had to be a trick to it. What would he do? How would he—?

"Switch!"

Zevran ducked low, sparing him a distracted nod, Leliana moving to draw her own opponent closer.

"Switch now!"

Leliana whirled, turning her blades on the shadowded Zevran as the elf skirted wide to flank the other Alistair. Right. The new Leliana smiled as she lunged for him, daggers spinning quick. But she was a bowman, he knew, always tried too hard for speed when working with her blades. He deflected them easily, once, twice, a third time. At the last blow her arm was thrown wide, giving him the room he needed.

He let the sword droop with her, phantom hands scrambling at her phantom belly. But still she looked up at him, hurt, confused, shuddering as she disappeared.

"I'm sorry."

"Alistair?"

She was there still, sheathing her blades, watching him. He was staring at empty stones, he realized.

"Are they—?"

"Dead, my friend." Zevran grinned. "Or at least more dead than they were before."

"Try not to look so happy about it."

"I am actually quite surprised that you bested me in our first encounter, now that you mention it."

"Right."

Leliana slipped an arm through his, eyes narrowing worriedly despite her smile.

"I-I killed you."

"No, you didn't."

"But maybe I will." He pulled his arm away, starting across the room. "Maybe that's just how it works."

The next set of doors opened onto a great pit. There was an arch waiting on the opposite side, the hall beyond glowing with a strange and flickering light. Some of the floor remained, carved tile slabs ringing the hole, but there seemed to be no way across.

Alistair crouched, resting his head in his hands. "Great."

Zevran, though, moved close, peering over the edge. He slipped along the curve of it, footsteps echoing on the tile. There was a whoosh, a click; Alistair raised his eyes.

"Ahh, a puzzle."

A new tile had appeared, overhanging the hole. It was faded as the spirits had been, testing, tempting, half real. As Zevran stepped aside, it disappeared.

"Do it again."

He nodded, moving forward. It reappeared.

"Good… stay there."

Alistair hesitated a moment at the edge, blinking down at it. He lowered his foot slowly, stumbling as it found only air. But Leliana was there then, pulling him back. "Let us try something else."

She moved round the other side of the pit, mirroring Zevran. As she stepped onto the first tile, there was another click, the first piece of the bridge seeming to solidify.

"So it's a puzzle?"

"And a stirring metaphor for teamwork, yes? I feel inspired already." With a shrug Zevran moved onto the next. The first tile wavered a moment and disappeared.

"Great. Well done."

"It is merely not so simple as it seems." He glanced round, eyes lighting on something against the wall. Scooping to pick up a crumbled stone, he moved back toward the hole, depositing it on the tile where he had been standing. The first piece of the bridge reappeared.

"That's cheating."

Shrugging, he flashed Leliana a grin. "You know what they say. All is fair in love and treasure hunting."

With some effort they were able to break enough pieces, laying one on each tile to make a solid bridge. Testing this time, Alistair stepped across.

The hall was short, opening onto the largest room that they had yet seen. He could barely make out the ceiling above, but found his eyes draw to the stairs rising at the room's center. A familiar statue loomed there – though it was far more grand than any of the copies he had seen – one hand outstretched to hold a dancing and eternal flame. And there, at her feet…

"By the Maker…"

Beside him, he could feel Leliana tremble. "It… it…"

Even Zevran had fallen silent, eyes growing wide.

But he hadn't seen it before, had noticed that the way was blocked. The entire room seemed to be ringed with flame. Only a low altar stood before them, cool and untouched. There were words carved there.

"Cast off the trappings of worldly life and cloak yourself in the goodness of spirit. King and slave, lord and beggar; be born anew in the Maker's sight." He shook his head. "What does that me— What are you doing?!"

He had turned to find Zevran slipping his tunic over his head, hands already working at the laces of his breeches. "Is it not obvious?"

"What?" Alistair turned back to the altar. "We… it can't… it can't mean… _literally_!"

Leliana peered over his shoulder. "He is right, I think." She shrugged, grinning up at him as she slipped the bow from her back.

"So then what? We walk through fire? _Naked_?"

"So it would seem."

Alistair had glanced toward Zevran, turning away with a cough. "Whoa. Okay."

"It said _all_ the trappings, did it not?"

"Maker's breath…" Wincing, he set his sword and shield beside the altar, reaching gingerly for his breastplate.

Leliana watched him, loosing her belt as she slipped the last of her leathers to the floor, giggling as he tried desperately to hold her eyes. "Alistair! You are blushing!"

"Yeah, well… I've never… I…" Boot tangling in his leggings, he stumbled.

Laughing still, she bent to help him, Zevran's chuckle echoing at his other side. He waved them both off.

"It's… it's okay. I've got it."

They stood opposite each other now, Zevran smirking as he quirked a brow. "Dear, dear Leliana… Why is it we have not made love as of yet?"

She met him stare for stare, her own eyes openly appraising. "Should every man in Ferelden suddenly die, you may yet have your chance."

"Aha! Progress!"

Alistair pushed between them, eyes fixed ahead, making quick as he could for the flames.

"Alistair." Zevran held up a warning finger. "Unless those are Chantry-blessed underpants…"

Flush deepening, he scowled. "Fine. Fine. Whatever."

"Ahh, now there is evidence of the Maker's hand at work."

Covering himself, Alistair pinched shut his eyes. Right. Just a little fire.

He stepped forward, wincing, waiting. But there was only cool air, the slightest hint of incense.

Leliana pushed past him as he blinked, moving to stand trembling at the base of the stairs. "I… I cannot believe I am here… It is more than I could have imagined…"

"Yeah, it's—"

She was on him then, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling his lips to hers. Up she pressed, warm and eager against him, hands roaming now to his shoulders, his back, lips parting, nibbling, needing. His own hands found her waist, arms encircling easily, crushing her against his chest. It was some time before she pulled away, flushing as she grinned up at him.

"I… uh…"

"…Yeah."

Behind them, Zevran coughed. "Do not mind me. But we have some remains to liberate, do we not?"

"Right. The ashes." Still, Alistair found himself grinning, unable to look away. Longer still before he remembered that he was naked, that she was naked, that they were standing before perhaps the most holy relic in all the known world. Flush redoubling, he made for the stairs. "Maker's breath…"


	15. Return to Redcliff

The pouch was warm in his palm, the ashes still seeming to hold something of that eternal flame. Gripping it tighter, Alistair ran. Had he taken too much? Too little? The Arl and Wynne… He didn't care what they said; he had to try. And if it was going to be like this… if he was going to be responsible, make choices that would get people killed… it wouldn't hurt to keep an extra pinch or two, would it?

Zevran kept pace beside him, watching him with a smirk. They had uncovered the resting place of Andraste herself and still the elf was grinning like the cat that had swallowed the pigeon.

"Stop it."

"I said nothing." Chuckling, he glanced over his shoulder to Leliana.

She had fallen behind, been silent ever since the chamber. Alistair stopped. "Are you alright?"

"I… yes." It was slowly that she raised her eyes, slowly that she met his gaze. He had seen that expression before, the purse of her lips, that half-mad mix of fear and disbelief. Again he could imagine the sword piercing her belly, feel the weight of it heavy in his arm. "I… I feel I must apologize."

"Apologize?"

"It was… inappropriate. I should not have… I mean…"

"Inappropriate."

Zevran stepped between them, slipping a companionable arm round Leliana's waist as he clapped Alistair on the shoulder. "But if the spirit moves you, yes?" They both ignored him.

Alistair broke that gaze, moving up the hall with a shake of his head. "Come on. We don't have time."

Soon enough he could feel the bite of cold, the cool air stirring in the first chamber. Of the Guardian there was no sigh. Lengthening his stride, he pushed through the doors and onto the mountaintop.

"Alistair." He could hear the worry in Leliana's tone, the plea unspoken.

But the snows had come again, lying in fresh-blown drifts amongst the ruins, piling against the dragon's slumped and folded wings. Shielding his eyes, he squinted against the glare, running back toward the broken bridge.

"Alistair! She's—"

"—Gone." He turned round, searching the ground. "She's gone."

"What?" Leliana and Zevran were gaping now too, circling wide-eyed.

"Here. She was right… here." He knelt, digging frantically at the snow, moving from one drift to the next.

"Alistair." There was a hand on his shoulder but she shook it off.

Sitting back on his heels, he let his hands fall at his sides. "Wynne." Again he glanced round the plateau, eyes straying to the peaks above. "Wynne!"

"Lost the old woman, have you?" She slipped from behind a column, stepping slow cross the remains of the bridge. Sneering down at them, Morrigan chuckled.

"What did you do with her?"

"I? I have done nothing."

"_Where is she?_" Alistair was on his feet now, fist curling round the ashes.

"She left you, then? Or perhaps became confused and wandered off? 'Tis no concern of mine."

Leliana moved to his side. "She's dead."

That seemed to give even Morrigan pause, surprise flickering behind her narrowed eyes.

"We left her… her body here."

"Well, 'twas not _I_ who removed it."

"Then what are you doing here?" Still Alistair scanned the snow, biting the words as he turned away.

"I grew weary of waiting. But that insufferable knight would not let me past the door."

"Not worthy, were you?"

She turned to Leliana with a scowl. "I have no need of your Maker's approval. I merely assumed that you would need my assistance… or that you had already failed in the attempt."

"We fared well enough, thank you."

"Indeed." She arched a brow, eyes roaming between the three of them. "And your dust?"

Slowly Alistair opened his palm, shaking his head. He pushed past Morrigan, turning round to gaze once more across the mountaintop. "Come on. Let's just… let's just go."

* * *

"I must speak with you."

The path was flattening, the foothills finally giving way to the main road. Gritting his teeth, Alistair kept his eyes on his boots.

Morrigan, though, was undeterred, leaning close as she fell into step beside him. "I have uncovered something most… troubling in Mother's grimoire."

"I really don't care."

"Then you are even more the fool than I realized."

"Do you mind? I'm trying to ignore you." His gaze strayed up the trail. Leliana and Zevran had roamed ahead, already disappearing round the bend. Days they had been walking and still she seemed to be avoiding him, exchanging no more than a few words and never finding a moment to…

Stepping in front of him, Morrigan folded her arms. "I have discovered how it is that Flemeth extends her unnatural life."

He stopped short. "How?"

She sighed, glancing round at the empty hills. If he didn't know better, he'd have said she looked almost disturbed… afraid. Morrigan afraid. He felt the dread settle in his stomach.

"How?"

"'Tis a…" She trailed off, avoiding his eyes.

"Fine. You know what? Don't tell me. I don't care." Stepping wide, he made his way up the trail.

"Perhaps you would ask her yourself, then?"

"What?"

Her scowl deepened as she approached. "Ask her yourself. Considering her age, she may be here at any moment."

"Here?"

"At the moment of her death, Flemeth's spirit will seek another form. A younger body, already trained… already prepared. _Mine_, if you still have a wonder."

"Yours? You mean she'll…?"

"'Tis the purpose of her daughters, it seems."

Alistair stood for a moment, following her gaze. "Wait. Then why would she even – you know – send you with me? Risk you?"

She seemed to stiffen. "She has her reasons, I am certain."

"And she could just… show up? One day you're Morrigan, the next you're Flemeth?"

"So it would seem."

He quirked a brow. "And I would know the difference how…?"

"Trust me, you would enjoy it far less than you realize."

"So why are you telling me this?"

"Because it cannot be allowed to happen." Stepping closer, she raised her eyes to his. "You must kill Flemeth."

"Wait. You want me to… kill your mother?"

"I cannot do it. At the moment of her death, her spirit would seek me out."

"Oh. Right. Of course. You're insane."

"Do you see another solution?" She turned, looking away up the path. "But if you would rather Flemeth's company…"

Alistair groaned. After a long moment, he moved to her side. "I hate you."

"And I you. But this must be done."

"Right."

* * *

Soon enough the road became familiar, the castle looming on the horizon as the path wound down into the gorge below. The figure beside the bridge had been watching them for some time, legs folded beneath him as he leaned back against the stone. At their approach, he came stiffly to his feet.

Zevran chuckled beneath his breath, Leliana shaking her head in wonder. Alistair, though, stiffened, crossing his arms.

"Found it, did you?"

The sword rose high above the Sten's shoulder, thick and gleaming against his back. He may have imagined it, but the lines of the Qunari's face had softened, his words coming slow and deep. "Yes. In the home of a dead dwarf."

"Great. Good for you."

"And the wastebin that you were so eager to find?"

"The Urn." Slipping a hand beneath his shirt, Alistair pulled free the pouch hanging there. His eyes narrowed. "Wynne's dead."

Sten's looked to the others, shaking his head with a rumbling sigh.

"You could have been there. You _should_ have been there. There was a dragon and—"

His brow seemed to twitch at that, but his nod was slow and somber. "It was a good death."

"_No_ death is a good death."

The Qunari only shook his head.

"Oh. And here." Alistair slipped the pack from his shoulder, dropping it at his feet. "I'm tired of carrying it. And it smells… _really_ bad."

Peering into the sack of drake scales, Sten smirked.

But Alistair had moved past him, staring out at the town below. The remains of the battle had been cleared from the square, work beginning now on the ruined inn. He stood a moment, watching. They were rebuilding, yes, but why did it still feel so… wrong?

"Should we… should we help?"

Leliana had paused beside him, following his gaze. She seemed about to speak, shaking her head with a sigh, but Morrigan passed between them.

"'Tis not our concern. Let us see these ashes and be done with it."

They were ushered into the castle without question. The silence seemed to stretch thicker here, their presence stirring only the softest of wondering whispers. Bann Teagan was sitting at a long table in the main hall, glancing up at their approach. He stood slow and weary, his one remaining eye narrowing.

"Alistair." His bow took in the others, the scar pulling with his tired smile.

"Bann Teagan."

"I apologize for the lack of welcome." He sighed. "And I almost hesitate to ask. We've had little enough hope these days."

"We found it. The Urn. The ashes."

His eye grew wide, grin puckering again. "Then let us hurry."

The mages had been kept on hand, but their magics had done little to slow the poison. Even without Conn– without the demon, the Arl seemed unchanged. At Teagan's summons, they led the way to the upper level, passing through a familiar chamber.

Alistair paused, blinking down at the floor. It had been scrubbed clean, of course, the pale tiles no different than the rest. But still he could imagine that he saw the stain. He lingered there, letting the other pass him by, raising his eyes to the distant door only at Teagan's cough.

Slipping the pouch over his head, he stepped across the threshold.

"_You_."

"Isolde, please."

She knelt at the beside, hands curling white-knuckled against the coverlet as she glared up at him. Teagan moved to stand behind her, laying soothing hands on her shoulders. She shook him off.

"You." She seemed to shudder, seeing the others for the first time. "_All of you_."

They had taken her from him, taken her from Connor's side, pulling her away to leave Alistair alone with the boy. He forced himself to meet that glare.

"Isolde. We talked about this." Teagan had leaned closer still, whispering against her hair. "And they've brought the ashes."

Her eyes widened at that, subsiding enough to allow Teagan to help her to her feet. But still she kept her gaze on Alistair, watching, defensive.

He handed the pouch to one of the mages, feigning interest as the man bent to dissolve it in a steaming cup. Morrigan, too, had moved round, watching him work.

"Water?" She snorted. "I do not see how this will work where proper herbs have failed."

Zevran tsked. "But the Maker works in mysterious ways, does he not?"

"I have no use for the Maker's ways, mysterious or otherwise. Nor would I think, do you."

"Oh no? We Antivans are very devout, in our way." He chuckled. "But we also do not turn down a wager, when one presents itself."

Morrigan raised a curious brow. "Indeed?"

"Shut up." Alistair leaned close. "Just… shut up."

With Teagan's help, the mage tilted the arl's chin, slowly easing the thick mixture into his mouth. First Connor and now Eamon. If this… if this didn't… He felt eyes on his back, realized he had taken a step toward the bed. Morrigan was watching him with a curious expression, hardening quick as he turned.

"What?"

The cough seemed to echo, sending him whirling round.

"Teagan? Where is Isolde? Where is Connor?"

Isolde knelt, taking his hand in hers. "I am here."

"Connor? Where is Connor?"

"He… he is dead." She seemed to be testing the word, tasting it for the first time. "Connor is dead."

"Then it was not a dream." Eamon sagged, settling back against the pillows with a sigh. His gaze shifted, seeing Alistair for the first time. "Alistair? What are you doing here?"

He winced.

"He's a Grey Warden now, brother." Teagan lay a hand on his arm. "It was he who brought the ashes, he who healed you. You were poisoned. By Loghain."

"Loghain?"

Alistair sighed. "He was at Ostagar. We were… meant to stop the Blight. And it _is_ a Blight. I'm sure of it now. But Loghain turned his back on the Wardens, left everyone… left the king to die."

"Cailan is dead?" He looked to Teagan. "And so you have summoned Alistair."

"No! I… I mean I just sort of… showed up. I need your help, actually. Against the Blight."

"And against Loghain."

Isolde came quick to her feet, striding between them, blocking the path to the bed. "Can you not see that he is weary? You…" She turned to Teagan. "…_both_ of you. Let him rest!"

"I have had quite enough rest, I think." Eamon struggled into a sitting position with the mage's help. He lay a hand on Isolde's arm, drawing her close to lay a lingering kiss on her forehead. "And if what Alistair says about the Blight is true, we have wasted enough time already."

She subsided, curling against him, but that glare was undiminished.

"Now. Alistair. What do you propose?"

"_Me_?"

There was something of a smile there. "Yes. It has always fallen to the Grey Wardens to prepare us for a Blight."

"But that's Wardens. _Wardensss_... I'm just me." He sighed, hand straying to his packs. "I have… treaties. The Circle of Magi has already agreed to help, but they're old and Orzammar, the Dalish…"

Eamon nodded. "I suggest you pursue them. But we must also deal with Loghain. If he is indeed controlling Cailan's throne it will not have gone unnoticed. I can mobilize the nobility against him, do what I can to spread word of this treachery. But we will need something more."

Teagan blinked down at him, turning to Alistair. "Are you certain, brother?"

"What? No! Please stop looking at me like that…"

Behind him, he heard Leliana shift. "What are they talking about?"

"You have not told your companions?"

"Told us what? Alistair?"

Slowly he turned, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. "I… my mother was a serving girl. Here. In the castle. My… my father was King Maric. Cailan… well, was my half-brother."

Zevran chuckled. "So you are not only a bastard, but a _royal_ bastard?"

He raised his eyes, saw the twitch of Sten's lips, Morrigan's deepening scowl. But Leliana was gaping open-mouthed. After a long moment she looked away, squeezing shut her eyes as she chewed her lip.

"I…"

"Teagan and I have a claim through marriage, but yours is by blood, stronger even than Anora's. We cannot challenge him without presenting a better alternative."

"Me?" Alistair whirled. "You want to make _me_ king? I don't want it. You do it, I'll support you, make it official, whatever it takes."

"It will not be enough. I would seem an opportunist, no better than Loghain. They would never support me over him."

"But I'm a Grey Warden… the Blight…"

Behind him, Morrigan snorted. "And _now_ he is eager."

"Shut up! Eamon… I'm not a king. I mean… well, look at me." He glanced over his shoulder, holding up a warning finger.

"I am. You have done much already. Would that you could only carry one burden at a time, but this is not the case. See to your treaties; I will see what I can do about Loghain."

"And then…? I mean, I don't get a choice in this? At all?"

Eamon sighed. "There is always a choice. But they are not without consequence. Without a stronger claim, I will be forced to support Loghain."

"_Support_ Loghain?" Alistair found himself striding close to the bed, Isolde stiffening between them. "You can't! He's a murderer! A… a…"

"Ferelden must be united in the face of the Blight. We cannot risk civil war."

"United…" He trailed off, bracing a hand against the bedpost as he sagged. "So it's either him or me?"

"It is."

"And what becomes of Loghain?"

"As king, that would be up to you."

Alistair raised his eyes to the old man's, feeling his scowl deepen as they narrowed. After a moment, Eamon smiled.


	16. Honnleath

"You know, Antiva has a long tradition of royal bastards. But not all of them attempt to claim the throne."

"You don't say." Shaking his head, Alistair turned away, keeping his eyes on the path ahead. Right. King. There was only that small matter of – you know – saving the world first. Maybe he'd be lucky; maybe the archdemon would just swallow him and be done with it. He sighed.

Zevran, though, was still speaking. "…charged quite a fortune, they say, based on his uncanny resemblance to the king."

"Wait. What?"

The elf grinned. "There are a great many citizens who would relish the opportunity to bend the king over the—"

"—Whoa. Okay. Nevermind. Forget I asked."

Morrigan passed them up, slowing long enough to glare. "It is an unnecessary complication."

"Yeah, tell me about it. I really don't—"

"—Not for you." She stalked away.

"What? What's that even supposed to mean?"

Zevran leaned close. "I am just saying that you are not without opportunities, my friend. Tell me, did you and Cailan look much alike?"

Alistair groaned. "Just… stop. I didn't want to talk about it before; I don't want to talk about it now."

"As you wish." But he was smiling still, nodding over Alistair's shoulder.

Leliana had slowed, falling into step at his other side. With a chuckle, Zevran lengthened his stride, leaving them alone.

"Look, I wanted to say I—"

"—It is alright."

"No, I— What?"

She smiled, raising her eyes to his. "We all have secrets from our pasts, no?"

"Yeah, but… You're really not mad?" Still his shoulders hunched, bracing for impact.

"I wish that you would have told me… but I understand why you felt that you had to keep it hidden. The secret prince, unknown and unsung, fighting to save his country." She laughed. "I could compose quite a song about you."

He sighed. "Please don't. It's not a story. It's _real_, hideously and painfully real."

"But it is exciting, no? Romantic."

"Doesn't feel that way." He glanced sideways at her. "I've heard something about Orlesian bards, you know. About how they were sometimes spies… or assassins. About how they used to… lull their victims into complacency."

"Oh?" She quirked a brow. "That would not be such a bad fate, I think. A quiet death in the arms of a beautiful seductress."

"Right. So… have you ever… erm, _lulled_ anybody?"

She pursed her lips, feigning innocence. "I am not sure I understand what you mean."

"You know… Have you ever licked a lamppost in winter?"

She giggled. "Let us just say that there are many reasons that I chose to become a cloistered sister."

"Really? Such as…?"

"Excuse me! You there!"

Alistair turned. A man stood just off the path beside a wagon, waving in their direction. It was too large to be pushed by hand, but there was no sign of any animal, the harness hanging empty.

"Let me guess. You need our help."

The merchant followed his gaze, chuckling beneath his breath. "My mule did run off, but found her about a day's walk from here, I did. Got herself eaten by darkspawn, poor thing. There was barely anything left."

"Lovely."

"Actually, I was hoping I might help you."

"Help… me?" Alistair's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"You look like adventuring types. Got something that might be useful to you, I think." Digging in the wagon bed, he produced a short, metal rod.

"A stick? Well, I suppose I could beat the darkspawn about the head with it…"

"Not just a stick. What do you know about golems?"

"Golems?" Alistair couldn't help but smile. "I had a miniature golem doll once... I mean when I was younger… much, much younger."

The merchant grinned. "Well, how would you like to have a real one?"

"You mean a golem? Of my very own? Now that _would_ be useful, wouldn't it?"

"Perhaps you should stop acting like a child and hear the conditions of this arrangement?" Morrigan moved to his side, folding her arms as she glared down at the merchant.

"You really have to ruin everything, don't you?" But after a moment he turned back to the man, running a hand sheepishly through his hair. "So… what's the catch?"

"Ah. Well, the golem doesn't come with the rod, you see. But it's nearby. In a village called Honnleath, just south of here."

Morrigan arched a brow. "And this village…? There must be a reason you have not retrieved such a treasure for yourself."

"I can handle this, thanks." Alistair held up a forestalling hand. "So, this village?"

Morrigan snorted.

"Nothing to trouble you lot, I'm sure. Saw a few darkspawn in the area. Too much for me, but I'm sure you'll have no trouble." He shrugged, dropping the rod into Alistair's hand. "You'll need the command phrase to activate it. 'Dulef gar.'"

"And you'll just _give_ this to me?"

"I've no use for the rod without the golem. Think on it, though… a golem of your very own."

Turning the rod round in his palm, Alistair grinned. "Thanks. Really, thanks."

As they turned back to the road, he slipped the rod into his pocket, smiling still. Morrigan fell into step beside him. "You are a fool. Delaying for a broken piece of Dwarven tinkering."

"I don't see what you're complaining about. From what he said, it's on the way."

Leliana had been walking ahead of them. She turned round with the quizzical expression. "To Orzammar? Should we not be turning north?"

"Orzammar. Right." Alistair found himself looking to the trees beside the trail. "We're… we're not going to Orzammar. Not yet anyway. Just a brief stop first."

The others had stopped now. Sten sighed. "Where?"

"We're… well, we're just going to… killMorrigansmother."

"Speak clearly."

"Kill Morrigan's mother? You know, creepy witch that lives in the Wilds?"

Leliana gaped, eyes roaming between the pair of them. "Why?"

"That is between Alistair and myself." Morrigan folded her arms.

"Great. Really not helping."

"So you're listening to _Morrigan_ now?"

"Why should he not? Were _you_ to lead us we would be welcoming the darkspawn with flowers and kittens."

"Hey!" Alistair moved between them, holding up his hands. "We're here and… I mean, Flemeth… well, she's obviously evil, right?"

Leliana's eyes narrowed. "Flemeth? But you said she saved you from that tower. Do you not owe her your life? Why would you want to—?"

Morrigan snorted. "You do not know what it is you defend."

"You know, she does have a point. I can't just—"

"Believe me when I say that Flemeth did _not_ save you out of kindness. If it did not serve her purposes, you would be dead now."

"Right. And what purposes might those be?"

Her scowl deepened, shoulder bumping against Leliana as she stalked away up the road. "Does it matter? If we were to stand here debating the undercurrents of your apparent destiny, the Blight already be over."

Alistair watched her go, mumbling beneath his breath. "Like that would be such a bad thing." He looked to Leliana, shaking his head. "We'll go as far as this Honnleath place. I'll think about what you said."

She nodded, offering him a small smile before jogging up the path to walk beside Morrigan. Alistair stifled a groan.

"Why would you want to kill your _mother_? Do you not love her?"

"Love has little to do with it. I daresay Flemeth would agree."

"But she's your mother!"

Alistair let himself fall behind, burying his face in his hand. 

"A few darkspawn? A _few_?" Crouching low, Alistair put his shoulder to his shield, knocking the knees from beneath an oncoming hurlock.

Zevran chuckled, driving his blade between the creature's shoulder blades. "But your merchant did not lie, my friend. It is nothing we cannot handle."

"Riiight… He could have been a bit more accurate though, couldn't he? 'Overrun' comes to mind. You know, mildly, _slightly_ overrun…"

They had had to fight their way up the road from long outside the town. What signs there were of the villagers had been disturbing to say the least, but there seemed to be no shortage of darkspawn. Grunting, Alistair thrust his sword through the belly of another, pulling it free as he crested the hill. This would have been the town square once, but now the buildings burned, the largest of them engulfed in flickering flames of blue and green. As he watched they seemed to pop, sending up a fresh shower of sparks.

Morrigan was passing behind him now. "There are powders that can produce such effects, herbs as well. But if you would rather goggle at the pretty lights…"

"No. Hey, I was just—"

"—I daresay that if Flemeth's hut were to ever burn, it would take with it half the forest." Looking up at the building, she clucked her tongue. "'Tis a pity. We may have at last found something of worth."

The darkspawn were cowering now, but not for the magic of the flames. That snarl was almost becoming familiar.

"Is that the same dog?" Leliana had appeared at his side, panting and bloodied but smiling despite the filth.

"Yeah. Wynne…" He hesitated, feeling again the ache between his shoulders, the muscles of his stomach tensing unbidden. "Wynne said he was like a guardian. Or something."

"Perhaps she was right."

"Yeah? And look where it got her."

"Alistair.."

He turned his face away.

"Alistair, duck!" She grabbed him by the collar, forcing him to bend double. Bracing a hand against his shoulder she leapt, rolling cross his back as her blades spun round. The pair of genlocks dropped easy, one still clutching at his throat.

"Wow. That was…" He smirked.

"Maybe you will not best me so easily next time."

He winced, but she was already moving away.

Their numbers were dwindling, the last of the darkspawn fleeing before the mabari. Sten crested the hill then, three more falling before a wide sweep of his blade. It glittered despite the mess, cutting through flesh and bone as though it were little more than water. The Qunari took a moment to survey the square before sheathing it behind his back.

"You know, that _is_ a really pretty sword."

"It is called '_Asala_'. 'Soul,' in your tongue."

"So… your soul's big and pointy and covered in blood?"

Something twitched behind the big man's brow. "You are surprised?"

"Ha. No, not really."

The others were gathering now, approaching the patch of grass at the town's center. Still it was untouched, green despite the blood, despite the flames. Looking again to the burning building, Morrigan shook her head. "A mage lived here, I am certain of it."

"Yeah, well they're gone now." Alistair shook his head, blinking up at the statue. It stood in the middle of the green, arms outstretched, mouth open in a frozen bellow. A funny place for a golem, really, and not the sort of decoration that would be particularly welcoming.

But the mabari had gotten there first, laying curled at the golem's feet. At his approach it stood but, for once, it did not growl. It just… stared.

Alistair crouched, holding up a hand as he stepped slowly onto the grass. "Nice doggy… Nice giant, terrifying, darkspawn-eating doggy…"

It cocked its head, lifting its leg.

"Whoa! Hey, no!" He lunged forward, waving his arms. "That's _my_ golem! Shoo!"

Still it stared through narrowed eyes, hesitating only a moment before darting beneath the fence.

"Ha. See?"

"That was foolish." Sten moved to his side, blinking up at the golem for a long moment. "It is… impressive."

"Yeah." Alistair couldn't help but grin. "Only one thing left to do then." He fished in his pocket, pulling free the rod.

"Who do you think left it here?" Leliana circled round, examining it from all sides. "And the gems… they are quite pretty."

Alistair fidgeted, turning the rod round in his palm. "Erm…"

"And valuable, yes?" Zevran grinned. "It is said that even amongst the Dwarves, golems are a rarity."

"I… err…"

Morrigan sighed. "I suppose it shall prove useful. Even a rock must have more sense than Alistair."

"It was… no, that's not… maybe… right."

They turned to him as one.

Alistair could feel himself flushing. "I… I don't suppose anyone remembers the command phrase?"

Sten only sighed, moving to lean against the fence. Morrigan snorted, stalking away across the square.

"Dulac… dulem… something…"

Leliana took the rod from him. "Something gar… duffel gar… dulin gar?"

"Oh Maker's breath…" Grabbing it back, Alistair chucked the rod hard as he could at the burning building. "What's the point? We should never have come here."

"Alistair…"

"No, it's fine. Just another brilliant plan. This is why I can't lead! Why maybe I wasn't _meant_ to! People get injured! People die! What's next? Really, what's next?"

He had already slouched cross the square, stopping short as the mabari darted round to block his way.

"What? What do _you_ want?"

It sat blinking up at him, the rod locked between its jaws.

"Maker's… You, _you_… _play fetch_?"

Tilting its head, it deposited the rod at his feet.

Alistair crouched. "You're not so bad are you, boy?"

It stiffened, lips pulling back into a snarl.

"Right. Won't tell anybody, I promise." He saw it then, the burned scrap of parchment fluttering pinned against the dog's leg. "What's that?"

The mabari remained still long enough for him to pull it free before darting cross the square and out of sight.

"Huh." Straightening, Alistair smoothed the page, walking back toward the others.

Leliana peered over his shoulder. "By the Maker…"

There were printed words here, carefully inscribed in a neat hand. Spells of some sort maybe, nothing he could hope to understand. But there was another phrase in a different hand, scrawled hastily in an uncharred corner.

He shook his head. "No, it's not. I'm certain it's not."

Leliana only smiled. "Maybe Wynne was right. Maybe some things are just…"

Pinching shut his eyes, Alistair approached the statue. He cleared his throat, glancing back at the others one last time. "Um… dulan harn?"

It seemed to swell, the very ground beneath him trembling as the arms shuddered with a thick and echoing crack. The face moved, light seeming to break from its eyes as they tilted down to – well – glare at him. Yes, it was certainly a glare.

The golem made a rumbling sound, almost like a tired sigh.

"I wondered when someone might find the control rod. But It is not what I expected." Its head turned, taking in the others. "And I see it travels with a mage."

"Unfortunately."

"They _are_ insufferable creatures, are they not?"

Morrigan glowered. "'Tis no concern of yours, golem."

"Bah. Hag."

"Ooh, I think I like you already." Alistair grinned. "But… um… how does this work? I mean, exactly?"

"It has the control rod, does it not? It must, for I am awake."

Alistair shrugged, holding it up for it to see.

"Yes, yes. As a golem, I am a slave to whoever holds my rod."

Zevran giggled. Leliana elbowed him.

"So I just… order you to do something?"

"Yes."

"Kill Morrigan? Or maybe just maim her? Just a little."

"It speaks of the mage? While I perhaps feel a desire to do so, I do not feel… compelled." Its shoulders hunched, eyes growing wide. "But how can that be? It holds the control rod. And yet… Perhaps the rod is damaged?"

Alistair shrugged.

"Try another."

"Um… toss Morrigan into the fire?"

Morrigan snorted. "'Tis amusing, is it?"

"Nothing. I feel… nothing." The golem took a hesitant step, seemed to be testing the ground beneath its feet. "I am… free."

"Free. Right." Alistair couldn't keep the disappointment from his voice. "So I can't control you, then. But what will you do?"

"Do?" Again it seemed to sigh. "I do not know. I have stood here for so long that…" Those eyes narrowed. "What does It do?"

"'It'? That's me, right? It… well, It fights darkspawn mostly."

The golem nodded. "I have watched It and Its companions. It moans most piteously when injured." Its eyes strayed to Sten. "But its companions are not without skill. And it shooed the filthy beast away. I think I will accompany It."

"Hey! I mean… thanks? But… you'll come with us, then?"

"Have I another choice?"

Alistair sighed.

"I am called Shale, by the way."

They turned, making their way again down the hill. As they passed beneath the gates, Alistair allowed himself to glance up at the golem. "Um, Shale?"

It glared down at him.

"I know I can't, um, _order_ you to do anything but… See, I've always wondered… Could I have a ride?"

"Does It know that I could crush Its head with ease?"

"Right. Forget I asked."


	17. The Wilds

"Alistair. A word." Morrigan fell into step beside him.

"You know, just once I'd like to have a _quiet_ journey. A nice stroll, maybe enjoy the fresh air." They were moving noticeably deeper into the Wilds now, the trail overhung with long and sagging leaves, brambles scratching at their heels. The trees pressed close on either side, beasts or darkspawn or barbarians ready to swoop down upon them from the shadows. He gestured round. "I mean really appreciate the snakevines and cannibals and all that. Without anyone _bothering_ you."

"Tsk. And miss the opportunity for such witty banter?" Zevran slipped past with a grin, jogging ahead up the path.

So intent was Morrigan on scowling at the elf's back that she stumbled. Alistair caught her arm instinctively, dropping it as she glowered.

"Thought you knew the Wilds."

"'Tis yet a long way to Flemeth's hut. And I have deliberately chosen a little-used path."

"So you're sneaking, sneaking up on your _mother_." Alistair smirked.

"A most sensible approach where Flemeth is concerned."

"Right."

"But it is _your_ approach that concerns me." She watched him now through narrowed eyes. "You seem to grow increasingly… uneager."

"Me? Eager to help you? Why yes, let's stop everything we're doing – you know the Blight and all that – and help _Morrigan_. Could we? Could we really?"

"It must be done." She sighed. "And there is one other small matter to which you must attend."

"Oh? _Must_ I?"

"Flemeth's grimoire—"

"—Let me guess, you found something _extra_ creepy in it?"

Morrigan sneered, pulling the tiny, black book from her pack. "'Tis not a true book of magic. Flemeth's real grimoire will be with her still. I want you to retrieve it for me."

"Wait. You want me to kill your mother? For a _book_?"

"No, but I do not intend to die and _Flemeth's_ death is the only means to assuring such an end. The book, however, is of great importance."

"Sentimental, are we?" Alistair gave an exaggerated sniffle.

Morrigan sneered, quickening her pace to move ahead of him. "You would do well to harden your resolve. Believe me when I say that Flemeth will not take such betrayal lightly. And yet her survival…" She shook her head. "We will make camp soon. I will wait there for you. And do not forget the book. It may yet prove all the difference."

"The difference in what?"

She glared over her shoulder. "Your survival."

"Great. Right. I hate you." Alistair watched her go, muttering beneath his breath. "You… you…"

"She is quite charming, no?" Leliana had appeared at his side, shaking her head with a knowing smirk. "I can see how men would find her maddening."

Morrigan had fallen into step beside Zevran, scowl deepening as the elf laughed.

"Maddening? _Infuriating_, more like. She-she's like this… evil, sneaky witch-thief!"

"Thief?"

"She wants me to steal a book. From her mother."

Leliana quirked a brow. "I cannot imagine that she would kill her mother for a book. Or for any reason. She is her mother!"

"Now that I think about it, they're quite similar. Not that surprising then, really. But it's… complicated."

"You are still not going to tell me?"

"No." Alistair sighed. "Much as that would irritate her – and entertaining as _that_ always is – it's… not my reason to give."

She regarded him a long moment. Leaning close, she lay a kiss on his cheek. "You are a good man, Alistair."

He blinked at that, turning to look down at her. "You think so?"

"I _know_ so."

They walked in silence for a time. Alistair sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"You are worried?"

"Creepy old ladies? No problem." He shook his head, nodding up the path.

Zevran had slipped an arm round Morrigan's waist, grinning as he bent to whisper in her ear. She stiffened but did not pull away, turning instead to glare over her shoulder at Alistair.

"Now that… _that_ worries me."

* * *

He had let Morrigan call the halt that night, hadn't had much choice really. She had walked the perimeter of the camp for some time, seeming to measure the distance, get some sense of their location. If it had been anyone else he might have said she looked nervous. But she had slipped away some time ago, disappearing into the trees.

The golem stood now beyond the tents, tilting its head to watch the swaying leaves above. It would take the watch, it had said; it had nothing better to do. Sten had moved to its side, though what they could possibly have to talk about, Alistair couldn't guess. Nor could he tell which stood more stiffly, the Qunari or the stone.

He sighed, moving toward the fire. Leliana sat curled beside it, the familiar and worn copy of the Chant open in her lap.

At his approach she smiled, nodding toward the hulking figures. "They are sweet, no?"

"_Sweet_? Yeeeah… not exactly the word I would use." He crouched, poking a stick into the flames.

"What do you know about golems?"

"Hmm, let's see. So far that they're big and _mean_ and…"

Leliana shook her head. "I do not know many dwarven legends, but there is a… sense about it, is there not? As if it is more than just a machine."

"If you say so." He shrugged, settling back against the log beside her. "Still mean, though."

She giggled. "Well, it certainly has a… personality. I look forward to speaking with it more."

"And if this little bonding exercise gets you flattened, I'm not cleaning up the mess. Just so you know."

They were sitting close now, closer than he had realized. Smiling up at him, she ran a finger cross his chin. "When was the last time you shaved?"

He honestly hadn't expected anyone to notice. The hair above his lip was thin at best and he had kept his cheeks clean, but the thickening patch on his chin had just looked… right somehow. Maybe it was the way it offset the circles beneath his eyes, hid some of the gauntness of his cheeks. Scratching at it absently, he shook his head. "Not since… not since Haven."

"Ah." Her smile faltered, turning sad. Leaning close, she brushed her lips there, chuckling for the feel of it. "I like it."

"Yeah?"

But Leliana pulled away, sitting back with a sigh. "I wanted to tell you… I cannot go with you tomorrow. I cannot help you in this."

He blinked. "What?"

"I cannot help you kill Morrigan's mother."

"What? Why? She's… well, she's evil. Just like Morrigan, trust me. And she's an apostate. Even the Chantry would—"

"—Then let them send the templars." She shook her head. "It just does not seem… right to me. But I will not stop you."

"But why? I mean…" He spotted it then, pressed between the pages of her book. Hesitantly he turned them, running gentle fingers cross the withered petals of the rose. But they were brittle, too brittle, cracking beneath his touch. "You kept it?"

She nodded. "It… died quickly. But it somehow seemed a shame to leave it behind."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"—Hush." Something of her smile returned. "It was very beautiful. Perhaps what is important is that we remember it that way."

Sagging back against the log, he sighed. But his eyes caught on the treeline, the figure slipping silent round the edges of camp. She moved quickly, harried, but still Morrigan found the time to pause and glare in his direction. Worse than usual. What had he done now?

It was a moment before he saw the other figure, appearing at nearly the same spot, leaning smirking against a tree to watch her go. Alistair pinched shut his eyes. "Oh, Maker. I did not just see that. I did _not_ just see that."

Zevran was moving cross the clearing now, grin broadening as he crouched beside the flames.

"Really? _Really_?"

He only shrugged. "Who can say?"

"But it-it's _Morrigan_! She… she…"

She had paused beside her tent to watch them, cheeks seeming to flare even in the dim. With a final huff, she ducked beneath the flap.

Leliana snapped shut the book with a disapproving sigh. "Zevran…"

"What?" His smirk was wicked. "I will have you know the lady came to me. It would have been rude to refuse."

"Have you no shame?"

"None. It is part of my charm, or so I am told."

Leliana shook her head, tucking the book beneath her arm as she came to her feet. "I am going to bed."

Alistair opened his mouth to speak, but she was already striding away. He turned to the elf instead. "Great. Thanks for that."

"You are welcome, my friend." He chuckled, shaking his head. "But I fear I must speak with you, and seriously." Zevran leaned close, waving a hand between them. "This… this is not working."

"Tell me about it."

With a chuckle he pinched the hairs of Alistair's goatee, giving them a sharp tug.

"Ow!"

"Truly, my friend? Have you not looked in a mirror?"

"I _like_ the way it looks, thank you. So does Leliana. Wait… _this_ is what you wanted to talk to me about?"

He tsked. "The situation grows increasingly dire."

"I thought I asked you to stop making fun of my hair."

"And yet you grow more of it! How am I to resist?" He rose quick to his feet, glancing back with a whispered chuckle as he disappeared amongst the tents.

Sinking back against the log, Alistair jabbed the stick into the flames, watching as it blazed and splintered.

* * *

Leliana and Morrigan had remained at camp, keeping well to their respective tents as they watched them depart. He had only to follow the path, keep a wary eye, not trust a word Flemeth said, not forget the book, mustn't forget the book… "Do this, do that…"

"Hmm?" Zevran appeared at his side, quirking a curious brow. The elf had been mercifully silent all morning.

"Nothing. Forget it." Alistair's eyes followed the movement of the other man's hand, straying again to the folds of his tunic, twining round the golden rope nestled there. The necklace was new… and yet familiar. "Wait. That's Morrigan's isn't it?"

He shrugged. "And so it was."

"Don't tell me you're… I mean, she _gave_ it to you? To you?"

"Oh ho! Jealous, are you?"

"No! I-I just…"

"Do you truly know so little of women, my friend?" He smiled, clucking his tongue. "How shall I put this? Women are just as likely to choose a man for who he is not than for who he is. More likely, in point of fact."

"What?"

"I am only saying that perhaps it was not _I_ who she was thinking of last night, hmm?"

"Wait. You're saying she was… of me… with you…? You-you're having me on."

"Am I?" He chuckled. "What you witnessed was a private arrangement, the details of which are of a – how shall we say? – sensitive nature."

"Meaning what?"

"A gentleman never tells, my friend."

"And that would be... _you_?"

"But of course! What manner of fiend do you think I am?"

Alistair snorted, shaking his head.

Ahead the path dipped, sloping through the stagnant waters. The clearing was much as he remembered… or much as he had tried to forget. It seemed so long ago now, that first hurt throbbing deep, the first realization that he was well and truly alone.

But he was not alone, not anymore. She waited for them just beyond the door, watching with folded arms and narrowed eyes. Funny how that pose was so familiar now.

"Flemeth."

"Grey Warden. I see Morrigan has finally found someone to dance to her tune. Though, I admit, I did not expect her to find you so eager."

"Trust me, I'm not."

"And yet here you are." Her chuckle slithered rasping, glare taking in the others now. "My Morrigan is not without her charms."

"She knows your little secret."

"Oh? Which one, I wonder. Flemeth has many."

"The one about the… you know… the body… possession… thing."

"This is the tongue that shall unite the world, is it?" Flemeth snorted. "But I can only assume that Morrigan has discovered how it is that I extend my life."

"Yeah… about that—"

"—Let us skip to the ending, shall we? Will you slay the wretch as Morrigan asks? Or will you leave an old woman in peace?"

Alistair shook his head. "There's… a book."

"Ah. So Morrigan desires my grimoire." She chuckled, producing a bundle from somewhere about her robes. It was larger than the other, the binding grey instead of black. Watching him from beneath lowered brows, she dropped it into his hands. "Take it. Tell her I am slain."

He blinked. "And you'll just… let us go? What about Morrigan? When will you…?"

"I am feeling hale and healthy yet. Perhaps I will only watch. It will be interesting to see what she does with her freedom."

"And she'll believe me? That you're dead?"

"People believe what they want to believe."

"Right." He looked to the book, turning it gingerly in his hands. "I guess we're going then."

"Good boy. I had almost feared…" She shook her head, clucking her tongue. "But no matter. You are doing well enough."

"Great. More riddles." Tucking the book into his pack, Alistair turned for the path.

Zevran, though, stiffened. Hesitating only a moment, he closed the gap, slipping an arm round the old woman's waist. "Must we be leaving so soon? Tsk. It is not every day one meets a legend, particularly one so beautiful."

Alistair goggled. "Zevran…"

His grin only broadened. "Tales of Flemeth and her daughters have reached even as far as Antiva. And while your Morrigan may be fetching enough, there is something to be said for experience, for maturity, yes?"

Flemeth's expression did not change, but something flashed behind her eyes.

"Zevran. Come on. We're going."

"Nonsense." He chuckled, hand sliding along the woman's back. "But such scowls do you a disservice, my dear Flemeth. Were you a woman of the city you would be showered with praise, with gifts, with—"

"—Pointless flattery is it?" Still she looked to Alistair, quirking a wondering brow. "And when you already have what you came for?"

He held up his hands. "I don't…"

Flemeth smiled. "I would have thought better of her." She twisted quick, grabbing the elf by the wrist, the dagger falling from his fingers as he was flung against the hill. Striding past him up the slope, she moved into the clearing. "But she would have us dance. Let us see if Flemeth remembers the steps."

Her back was to them now. Crouching, Alistair bent to Zevran's side, stopping short of offering a hand. The assassin pushed himself onto an elbow.

"Morrigan asked you to kill her mother, didn't she?"

"Or to ensure that it was done, yes. She knew that you lacked the… stomach."

"I had it under control."

He chuckled, coming slowly to his feet. "Did you? Truly?"

"I—"

"—Warden." Behind him, he could feel Sten stiffen.

"This isn't—"

"—Warden."

Alistair raised his eyes. No. Not again. Again he saw it, the world turned to flame, Wynne sinking heavy in his arms. Not again. "Maker's…"

The dragon leaned low, letting out a long stream of flame.

He glared at the elf. "Congratulations. We'll just leave her to you then, shall we?"

But Sten was already moving cross the clearing, sword upraised. If Alistair hadn't known better, he would say that the Qunari was almost grinning. Shale moved with him, circling to the beast's other side.

After a moment, Zevran shrugged. "Nothing we have not faced before, yes?"

"I hate you so much."

Raising his shield, he charged after the others. But Flemeth twisted, tail sweeping round. Sten leapt aside, but it knocked the golem off its feet with a shuddering crash. They couldn't get close, never enough, never for long. He found himself wishing that they had Leliana and her arrows, even Morrigan and her staff. Darting near, he struck the beast behind the knee, rolling aside before the blade could truly bite.

One of her claws swung low, just above his head as he ducked. He heard the scream, the telltale crunch of bone, the echoing rumble as the dragon almost seemed to laugh. Again Zevran was flung aside, but this time the elf did not stir.

Shale too seemed to be wounded, roar fading into something of a moan. Sten moved past, balancing the greatsword in one hand as the other arm hung limp. As Alistair watched, he stumbled.

He didn't see it, the telltale hiss, the smile behind the flame. Or perhaps he no longer cared. He had let her die, let them all die. All because of _Morrigan_.

Dropping his shield, he felt the fire wrap him round, burning, blistering engulfing. Alistair held up a hand. The flame seemed to dance there, licking round his fingers, trailing with them as they moved. Funny, it didn't hurt. It didn't even seem to touch him, not really. Again he waved his fingers, turning his hand to the light. It seemed almost… shielded... thin and perfect and holding.

"So this is the Flemeth of legend?" There was a chuckle behind him, soft and echoing bemused.

Alistair turned. He could see it though the flames, the figure striding up the hill seeming to waver in the haze. But still she came on, raising her staff as she looked to the beast. There was a smile there of all things, thin-lipped and familiar.

His knees gave way at last. "Maker's breath…"

Wynne chuckled. "I told you I'm not the sort of person who leaves things unfinished."


	18. Flemeth's Hut

"Most impressive." Wynne shook her head, blinking up at the dragon with a bemused smile. "I have heard tales of Chasind witches that could change their shape."

Alistair had fallen forward, bracing his palms against the earth as he struggled to raise his head. Still she wavered just beyond the flames that did not burn, radiant and luminous, one lone and tiny figure against the beast.

"A neat enough trick. But tricks will not avail you." She chuckled. "Size does not matter, as it were."

Flemeth leaned low, jaws cracking with a telltale hiss. Alistair opened his mouth to shout, choking on the words. Too late, again too late.

But Wynne planted her staff before her with both hands, driving it deep as the fire arced round. She seemed to weaken, struggling, but still the shield held, the flame breaking round her in a great V. As the dragon reared back in frustration, Alistair's own shield seemed to break, the fire sucked away as he gulped deep of the cool air. It was the same for Sten, for Shale, both rousing now.

Wynne was striding forward, staff upraised. "How does it feel to be defeated by an old woman?" Again, she smiled. "Though if the tales of you are true, I am quite young indeed."

Flemeth hissed.

With a final thrust, Wynne's arm stretched skyward, the light breaking glaring and golden from the staff's end. Alistair felt his breath catch, warmth spreading cross his chest to race tingling through his limbs. His head cleared, tiredness fading, strength returning. The dragon, though, was roaring, neck whipping from side to side as if blinded.

"Alistair. Now."

Scopping up his sword, he looking to the mage. Still she struggled, staggering to keep the staff aloft, but there was concentration there, a certainty behind the words.

"Alistair!"

"I—" He blinked up at the beast, biting back a curse as the head swept low. With a leap, he caught the flaring scales at the back of its head, feet slipping as the neck bucked beneath him. His stomach twisted, for the moment weightless, but he braced the sword before him, driving deep. Flemeth let out a final, near-human scream and they were falling again, the blade ripped from his hands as he stumbled and rolled clear. Alistair landed crouched in the dirt just in time to see the dragon collapse and fall still.

"Now who is showing off?" Sten helped him to his feet with a bemused snort.

Wynne sagged at last, leaning heavy on her staff.

"Wynne?"

Still her eyes were pinched shut, cheek resting against the wood. She waved him away. "I am fine."

Alistair's arms were around her, pulling her close as she gasped. Releasing her from the embrace, he ran a hand through his hair. "I… we… we thought you were dead!"

"And so I was." He had actually missed that smile. Small, knowing and somehow wicked.

"You don't look dead."

"Kind of you to say so. But what happened on the mountain was…" She shook her head, straightening once more. "You remember our talk of spirits? Of guardians?"

"The one that you said was watching you? Or my giant, slobbering mabari?"

She chuckled. "When I fell, when I sacrificed myself… it was there. I felt it, a warmth, a certainty unlike anything I had ever known. And it is a part of me now."

"The spirit?"

"I felt it enter me on the mountain." At his raised brow, she tsked. "But it has limits, it seems. It sustains me, but its hold on this world is tenuous. I return to you now on borrowed time."

"So you're dying." He scowled. "When?"

"I do not know." Again, she smiled. "But I will do what I can in the meantime."

Sten had watched them in silence, Shale appearing now at his side. "Bah. Another mage."

"You seem to have acquired a golem." Wynne glanced up at him with a curious expression. "And lost your razor."

He stroked his beard sheepishly. "I grew it for you, you know. Sort of a… remembrance."

"If this is what my death has wrought, then it seems I returned just in time."

"Hey!"

But her gaze had strayed across the clearing. Still Zevran lay unmoving, limbs splayed awkwardly, his face buried in the earth. Wynne moved quick, kneeling at his side. "I can revive him."

Right. Zevran. Alistair caught her wrist. It was a long moment that she held his gaze, surprise flickering to understanding before hardening in disapproval. She pulled her hand away.

"Warden?" Behind him Sten shifted, the question plain.

Alistair scowled, shaking himself before coming to his feet. "Fine. Whatever. Go ahead." Even as he turned away he could feel it, that light, that warmth, the soothing echo of her whisper.

"Mmm? What?" With Wynne's help Zevran shifted, his head cradled against her lap as he blinked up at her. "Wynne?"

"There now."

He groaned, testing his movements. After a moment, he chuckled. "I had the strangest dream. I was dead. You were dead." Slipping an arm round her waist, he pillowed his head against her bosom. "It was terrible!"

There was something almost bemused behind her sigh. "Here, let me help you to your—"

Alistair whirled, grabbing the elf by the collar and yanking him bodily to his feet. "Feeling better? Good! Great! Marvelous!" He flung him roughly aside, but Zevran landed in an easy crouch. "Mind telling me why you wanted to get us all killed?"

Smirking up at him, Zevran clucked his tongue. "I did no such thing. Morrigan merely tasked me with making sure the deed was done. And quite successfully, I must say."

"You _died_!"

"What is a little death between friends, eh?" Straightening, he moved again to Wynne's side. "And such a marvelous opportunity for a daring rescue."

She quirked a brow. "Keep your hands to yourself."

"As you wish." Zevran shrugged, circling Alistair now. "But it seems our Morrigan had reason to be concerned, does it not? How will she react, I wonder, at being proven right?"

"I had it under control."

"What was it she said, hmm? Something about stones… and not the ones in your head." His grin was wicked.

"You think you could do better?"

"I am certain of it. As was she."

"Funny. Every time you try to assassinate someone you end up unconscious. Is that some sort of strategy?"

He sneered.

"You know I've been wondering for a while now. Why wouldn't the Crows send their best? You're clearly no master."

"Perhaps you were not worth the trouble."

Alistair had purposefully turned his back to him, whirling now. "You know what? Go. Just go."

"You are making a mistake, my friend."

"I'm really not."

"The Crows will come. They will not relent. And you will not see them until it is too late." He chuckled beneath his breath, brows drawing dangerously low. "Perhaps I will finish the job myself."

Folding his arms, Alistair again turned away. "Yeah, I'm sure that'll keep me up at night."

With a shake of his head, Zevran took Wynne's hand, brushing a fleeting kiss cross her knuckles. Her eyes narrowed, but her gaze was for Alistair.

Glancing over his shoulder, he glared. "You're still here?"

With a final mocking bow, the assassin backed toward the trees, disappearing into the shadows.

"Alistair…"

"Don't… just don't." Shrugging his shield onto his shoulder, he started up the path.

* * *

They were still well beyond camp when he spotted the first body. The man's leathers were strange, too fine for one of the Chasind, for a simple bandit. Sten crouched, pulling the familiar arrow free of his throat. It took only a glance.

"Leliana." Alistair was already running, rounding the final bend in the trail.

More there were, two men, a woman. Dead. All dead. But all strangers like the first. He nearly tripped over the last, the man's hands still raised, mouth open in a frozen scream. There were no arrows; this was no archer's work. His chest was torn half away, the wound thick and wet and oozing. Bending double, Alistair retched.

"I see the strength of your stomach outmatches the strength of your sword."

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he raised his eyes. Morrigan stood beside the remains of the fire, sneering as she refilled Leliana's cup from a steaming kettle.

"Tea?" He goggled. "The camp is full of dead people and you're having _tea_?"

Leliana looked up with a sheepish smile. Her lip was broken, bloodied, the cut clean and precise. Moving quick, he crouched at her side.

Morrigan, though, swatted his hands away. "'Tis a stamina draught. The blade was coated. I did what I could to suck off the poison… but I have little skill at healing."

He ignored her hesitation, blinking up at her with both brows raised. "Wait. You sucked the poison… out of her lip?"

Leliana chuckled, wincing in pain. But Wynne was there then, shouldering him aside, taking the younger woman's cheeks gently between her hands.

"Wynne? Thank the Maker! Wynne…"

"Remain still."

Alistair stood, watching as Morrigan quickly hid her wondering expression behind a scowl. "Crows?"

"Perhaps." There was something wicked there as she turned her eyes to him. "But they spoke of a red-headed woman."

He looked to Leliana, who was now pointedly avoiding his gaze.

Morrigan glanced round. "Where is the elf?"

"Concerned, are you?"

"Merely curious. You return with a dead woman but without—"

Hand closing round her wrist, Alistair pulled her forcibly away from the fire. He could feel the others watching, felt the stares but did not care. Glowering, he opened his mouth once, twice, but could not find the words.

Morrigan pulled her arm away. Tilting her head, she watched him, lips pulling into a sneer. "He was successful, then? Flemeth is dead?"

"No, he wasn't. But it's done. She's dead."

She didn't try to hide her curiosity, but he would not give her the satisfaction.

After a moment, she shook her head. "I had little faith in his skill as an assassin, but I had no doubt about his ability to be—"

"—Completely annoying? Yeah, good call on that one."

"So I assume he is dead?"

Alistair stilled his features, giving nothing.

"And my grimoire?"

"Right. Priorities." He fished in his pack, shoving the book roughly into her arms. "You have what you wanted. Now it's my turn. Don't speak to me. Don't look at me. Lead us out of the Wilds and then go. I don't want to see you again."

Something flashed behind her eyes. On anyone else he might have called it hurt, panic. She steeled herself visibly. "You need me."

"No, I don't."

"No one else can help you. Not in this."

His laugh was bitter. "When have you _ever_ helped?"

"Without me your… bard would be dead."

"Yeah right."

He turned to go, but Leliana was there, laying a hand on his arm. Her lip was healed, any trace of the wound gone. "It is true. Morrigan saved my life."

Looking between them, he sighed. "Those men were ripped apart."

Morrigan made no move to speak, but Leliana looked to her with a smile. "She… transformed into a spider. I have never seen anything like it."

"I have." He glared. "You know, I didn't believe you when you mentioned the whole shapeshifting thing, but you might have – I don't know – warned me."

"If you did not care to listen, that is no fault of mine." Her eyes flicked away, the nonchalance poorly feigned. "What form did Flemeth take?"

"A dragon."

Morrigan pulled the grimoire closer to her chest.

"Don't even think about it."

She chuckled beneath her breath, looking to Leliana as she made her way toward camp. "Worry not. You have enough troubles for the moment."

Right. That. Something else to go wrong. Still Leliana would not meet his eyes, gaze straying expectant to the treeline.

"Those weren't Crows, were they?"

"No." She shook her head. "It was Marjolaine."

"Marjolaine?"

"I told you of her. The woman… the one who trained me. As a bard."

He blinked, flushing at the memory. "With the… wet frocks?"

Turning, she almost smiled. "I told you there were many reasons that I entered the Chantry. But I did not think that she would take it this far."

"Trying to kill you? Isn't that what bards do?"

"It was… more than that. And I do not think that she will stop."

"So she'll try again?"

Leliana nodded. "I was able to speak with one of the men before Morrigan…" She shuddered. "He gave me an address. In Denerim. That is where she will be."

"Denerim?" He watched her for a long moment. "You want to go to Denerim?"

"I may not like it, but I fear it is the only way. I will have to face her."

A howl echoed in the forest. Wolves and Maker knows what else. Still the sun was glaring, but they could not stay here, not tonight. "We… can't. Go to Denerim, I mean."

She blinked.

"It's… Orzammar's in the opposite direction. We need to go there." He winced as he spoke, saw her expression begin to harden before the words had escaped his lips. "But we will. After."

"You delayed for Morrigan."

"And it was a mistake."

"But you… she…" Her eyes grew wide, head shaking slowly.

Alistair stepped close, moving to lay a hand against her cheek. "I'm glad you're alright. And we will take care of it. As soon as we can."

Leliana turned her face away. After a long and silent moment she chuckled, moving back toward the others without a backward glance. Alistair let her go, feeling himself sag beneath that now familiar weight. What else could go wrong?

He did not see the watching eyes, the hulking figures slipping through the trees. A twitch of ears signaled the attack, their leader pulling back his lips to snarl.


	19. Through the Woods

"So I assume that it was you who defeated Flemeth?"

Wynne looked up from the pack that she was closing, straightening to fold her arms. "Why would you assume such a thing?"

"Your reappearance was… timely." Morrigan mirrored her pose. "And I believe it would take more than a single templar to best her."

"Yet you sent him anyway."

"He did not come to harm. And despite what he may believe, it is not my intention to see it so."

The older woman regarded her a long moment, eyes narrowing suspiciously. "I believe you. Though now I begin to wonder why."

"It is no business of yours, old cat."

"Of course."

"I was merely attempting to offer my… thanks. For your part in this."

"It was unfortunate that it could not end another way."

"_Unfortunate_? Unfortunate that it did not end sooner!" Morrigan sniffed, turning to find Leliana stalking back toward camp. Her sneer grew wicked.

But something else got there first.

It took Leliana round the waist, lifting her easily in one thick and hairy arm, the other reeling back to rake claws cross her face. Tall it stood, almost like a man, but its face was pulled into a long and bestial snout, its back hunched and spiked with fur. Alistair cried out as she slumped against it, the creature's eyes meeting his before it buried its teeth in her shoulder. Something fell hard against his back, knocking him to the ground, the weight of it threatening to crush the breath from him as it snarled close against his ear. Across the clearing, something howled.

But there was pain there, the pleading whimper of a wounded animal. Raising his head, he saw only teeth, the foam from those jaws dripping to pool steaming beneath him. It hissed as he watched, the cold snapping sudden, crystallizing it against his cheek. The creature reeled, the weight vanishing.

Alistair saw them then, Wynne and Morrigan standing back to back, staffs raised in an arcing ring of ice and fire. The younger woman's eyes narrowed, biting back a laugh as a cone of flame sent another of the beasts staggering. There were more, he saw, the clearing suddenly filled with hulking, howling shadows. Wolves or men, he couldn't tell.

His eyes searched desperately for the first as he struggled to his feet, but he could see no sign of it, of Leliana. A sudden bellow seemed to shake the earth beneath his feet, Shale charging into the center of the melee to slam both fists into the ground. The beasts reeled, stunned, the golem grabbing for the nearest to crush its head between its hands. Sten was there then, watching with an almost bemused smile as he swung his sword round.

Alistair, too, had finally leveled his shield, slicing almost blindly at anything with fur as he tried to reach them. He saw Sten overpowered, sinking to the ground in a flurry of teeth and claws, saw Shale's blow send the creature sprawling. Wynne cried out, staff again thrust skyward, the familiar blinding light sending the clearing momentarily into glaring day. The wolf-men reeled, cries cut short as they shied away. But still the light held. Alistair almost thought he heard words there, curt and half-growled as they turned and fled into the trees.

Wynne sagged, the light winking out, but Morrigan grabbed her arm before she could fall. "Get up."

"Leliana!" Alistair whirled, only dimly away of the slashed and scattered gear, the tents lying trampled. "Leliana!"

The cough was soft, so soft.

His boots slipped beneath him as he turned, falling to his knees as he scrambled toward the treeline. But he stopped there, hands hovering hesitant. There was nowhere to put them… he shouldn't… "Maker… oh, Maker…"

She lay as she had fallen, barely stirring beneath her wet and matted hair. It was this that he pushed aside, fingers quaking to see what remained beneath. There was so much… so much blood… a trio of ragged scars cutting from temple to chin, the side of her neck ripped nearly away. But there was a groan now, the faintest of ragged breaths.

"…Alistair?"

Wynne was there before he could speak, pushing him aside. It was only when he saw her look away, pinching shut those knowing eyes, that he finally felt the sting behind his own.

"Can you—?"

"—I will try."

Low she bent, hands hovering over the wounds. He tried not to notice the way they shook, see the resignation in her scowl. Again that light, but it wavered now, almost seeming to sputter. Wynne sat back with a sudden gasp.

The flow of blood had ebbed. "It-it worked, right?" But as he watched the skin round the wounds seemed to harden, curling, blackening.

Wynne shook her head. "There is magic here… old magic..."

Leliana took a shuddering breath.

"What can we do?"

She only shook her head.

It flitted on the edge of sight, the prickle of watching eyes, careful footsteps moving just beyond the trees. For a moment he thought it was Zevran, but as the shadows shifted he saw that the elf was dark-haired, the delicate tattoos snaking over both cheeks, low beneath his lip and up across his brow. His head tilted, the merest smile playing there. As Alistair watched he nodded, a pair of fingers beckoning.

He didn't know when he had come to his feet, stepping round the others. Weeks since he had felt that strange unsettling certainty but it returned now in waves, the elf's smile widening as he sank back into the shadows. This was… important. Somehow, important. Moving past the others, past Leliana, Alistair followed.

"Alistair?" Wynne struggled to her feet.

"Alistair!" Morrigan now, surprise and anger mixing in equal measure. "Where are you going?"

But he didn't hear them, not really.

The elf moved with ease through the trees, weaving, running, his laughter echoing as Alistair struggled to catch up. Yet it was never too fast, the path never disappearing, the stranger seeming to linger when he lagged behind. Foot catching on an upturned root, Alistair stumbled, earth scraping at his palms as he cursed. The elf had disappeared.

Slowly he moved through the trees now, blinking as they opened suddenly onto a high and narrow cliff. Away the forest stretched, hills and trees unending with no sign of roof or road. But there the elf waited, his back to the cliff, silent and smiling still.

Bracing his hands against his knees, Alistair bent to catch his breath. "What are you—"

Quick he moved, stepping close, blinking up at him. Alistair backed away instinctively. "Hey, hey personal space."

The elf smiled, one finger stretching to poke him in the chest.

_Here._

The Fade. Younger he had been, his face not yet marked, but he was sure now that man and boy were one and the same.

"Who—?"

The finger moved now to his lips, silencing him.

Alistair's mouth twisted sideways, out of the way. "Right. You do realize I have no idea what this means."

Laughter again as the elf backed away, apparently unmindful of the cliff.

"Whoa. Hold on."

He glanced down as his heels found the edge, looking a long moment before raising his eyes to Alistair's. With a final knowing nod, the elf leapt.

"No!"

Darting for the edge, he fell to his knees. But there was no sign of the elf, no cries, no body. Only tents, tents and caravans and fires huddled in the shelter of the cliff. The Dalish.

He spun as the underbrush crashed behind him, found Wynne panting heavy, Morrigan flicking leaves from her hair. Leliana lay limp in Sten's arms, the big man staggering to lean against a tree.

"Alistair! What—?"

"—The Dalish! We found them." He cast about, eyes lighting on the sloping path. "There! We have to go down. They can help us."

Sten grunted as he met his eyes but Alistair was moving then, nodding his thanks as he bent to Leliana. Still her chest rose and fell, almost imperceptible, breath hitching as he lay a kiss upon her forehead. "They can help us. I know it."

Down he led them, holding to the exposed roots in the cliffside for purchase, the narrow path winding but navigable. But Shales complaints, Sten's heavy sighs meant little now. Now, he was certain.

As they reached the bottom, he moved to the big man's side, taking Leliana from his arms. He had thought to meet with protest, certainly a stoic glare, but Sten sagged, chest heaving with obvious relief. It was only then that Alistair saw the marks, the deep gashes in his armor.

"Sten…"

"It is a scratch."

Alistair shared a long look with Wynne, but as she approached the Qunari turned away. Lowering his shoulders, Alistair shifted Leliana's weight, balancing to brush aside a matted strand of hair as she settled against his chest. It was only when he raised his eyes that he saw the arrow, nocked and steady only inches from his face. More there were, ringing them round.

The elven woman was short, lean, but there was nothing delicate behind her eyes as she moved to stand before the others. "What do you want, _shemlen_?"

"I—"

Leliana seemed to shudder then, her limbs stiffening as Alistair sank to his knees. The elven woman barked strange and slurring orders to the others, the arrows trained now on the dying bard.

"_What are you doing? Help us!_"

The woman blinked, stepping back. There was a look now shared amongst the others. She crouched, eyes narrowing suspiciously. "You think we will help you merely because you speak our tongue?"

Leliana had fallen still, his fingers trembling as they fell against her unmarked cheek. It was only dimly that the words reached him, his head rising slowly. "What?"

"What you said. Speak the words again."

"_Man carel le? Thaed ammen!_" Alistair's breath caught in his throat. "I… I didn't." He remembered then, the touch to his heart, touch to his lips.

The woman straightened with a sigh. One of the men came behind her, laying a warning hand on her arm. "Mithra…"

"_Tolo. No diriel._" With that she turned for the path, a sharp gesture from the man bidding them follow.

The path was short, the camp huddled just around the bend. He heard the cries before he saw them, the beds clustered in the open spaces, the moans of the wounded and dying. Turning full circle he saw them, glancing down at Leliana. "What happened here?"

The woman – Mithra – made no response, nodding instead to a caravan waiting at the camp's center, the elven man watching their approach with narrowed and wondering eyes. His robes were long, head shaved clean above his ageless features. Try as he might, Alistair could not understand the words that passed between them. Whatever had happened on the path was certainly not happening now.

Mithra was dismissed, the man turning now to him. Such pride behind the weighing curiosity of that gaze, his head tilting ever so slightly. "I am Zathrian, Keeper of this clan."

Leliana had stirred again. It was a long moment before Alistair raised his eyes. "I… I'm Alistair… of the Grey Wardens."

The elf's brow rose, but he only shook his head. "You are here about the treaty."

"The treaties…" In truth, he had forgotten about them. "Yes. Right. The treaty. But…" He shifted Leliana in his arms, let the man see him struggle.

His expression darkened as he looked to her. It was nearly the same as Wynne's but there was something more there, something… afraid. "Of course. Follow me."

He led them through the camp, almost to its outer edge. There were more pallets here, more screams, the writhing elves afflicted with now familiar wounds. But there were some among them who lay still, too still. Zathrian shook his head, gesturing to an empty cot.

Crouching, Alistair lay her down, moving aside as the elf bent to stip away the leathers round her shoulder. His sharp intake of breath was soft, almost imperceptible. "How old are the wounds?"

"I-I don't know. An hour maybe."

His head snapped up. "Impossible."

Wynne knelt at Leliana's other side. "I attempted healing, but it is unlike anything that I have seen. There is magic here… dark magic."

"Fool." The elf held her eyes as Leliana shuddered between them. "You have only made it worse." His fingers traced the blackened skin, turning away with disgust as he came to his feet.

"Hey!" Alistair followed, catching the elf on the shoulder to spin him round. "Help her!"

Eyes flashing, he raised his chin. But that look stretched long, something twitching behind his lips. "There is a way. A way to break the curse." His eyes flickered to Sten, watching the Qunari's fingers as they probed at the wound in his arm. "To help your people and mine."

"Name it."

"The wolves are led by one called Witherfang. That is the source of the curse. Bring me the beast's heart and I will be able to create a cure."

"And where is Witherfang?"

Zathrian's gaze swept round, taking in the shadowed edges of the forest. So dark it was, the branches seeming to shiver and close round. Right. They had certainly picked a creepy enough place to camp.

"Fine."

The elf nodded slowly. Stepping round, his hand snaked high, drawing Alistair's sword from where it rested against his back. He pressed it into his hands. "We will do what we can for your Qunari, but for the woman… it is too late."

"Too—?"

"—Alistair!" Wynne was bent now over the cot, struggling to hold Leliana down as she screamed. Her back arched, neck stretching painfully as the mage was thrown aside.

But Zathrian's hand was clamped still over his, over the sword. "Do what you must."

Alistair held his gaze. "No." He let the sword fall, darting to her side.

There were veins now throbbing in her neck, head lolling as her fingers curled and clenched in the blankets. The scream was wordless, her mouth twisting as her eyes pinched shut. But as he knelt there, they flew open, turning to him wide and dark and bloodshot.

Again it took her, the scream now given voice. It deepened as she held his gaze, her brows drawing low, thickening, hardening, shifting… No. He lay a hand on her arm.

"Alistair?"

"Hey, hey, I'm here."

Panting, she raised her head, eyes trailing down the length of her body. Still her limbs tensed, twisting, lengthening… and still he held her.

"Don't look at me!"

She leapt, elbow taking him in the chest, sending him crashing into the next cot. She seemed to stagger, back heaving as the waves racked her.

"Leliana!"

"No!" There was a growl there as she turned, the word hissed through jagged teeth. With that she whirled, fleeing into the trees.

It was then that he saw the arrows, nocked and following her movements.

"No!" Alistair came quick to his feet, stopping before Zathrian.

Again the elf raised his chin, unblinking as he met his glare.

"You'll have your heart."


	20. The Brecilian Forest

"I can fight."

"No, you can stay put."

Sten glowered down at him as Alistair shook his head. There wasn't time for this, not now. Raising two fingers, he gave the big man a gentle but insistent poke in the arm.

He winced.

"See? And if you _do_ turn into one of those things I'd really not rather be alone in the woods with you."

There was almost a smile behind his snort, the sigh sounding somehow relieved as he sank down upon the cot. But Sten caught his wrist as he turned away, fixed him with a low and level stare. There was warning there, and something almost like pity.

"Right. Thanks."

"I too shall stay." Wynne moved to the Qunari's side, easing him back amongst the blankets. "I may not be able to offer healing, but perhaps there is something I can do to ease their pain." She tsked, eyes roaming round the campsite, the crowed beds of the injured and dying. "Never have I seen its like, but I hope to know more before you return."

That left only Morrigan and the golem. Shale stood some way from the others, head tilted to watch the trees above. Strangely, Morrigan was speaking with one of the young elves. Alistair hadn't thought much of it when he had seen the boy approach, but now he saw his eyes go wide, mouth working in wordless horror.

"Morrigan! What are you—?"

"—Then perhaps this Gheyna has the right of it. 'Tis quite apparent that unless you find a way to slay the beast with tears, you will have little enough to offer her."

With that the boy turned, fleeing deeper into the camp.

She watched him go with a sneer. "I think I may vomit."

"Why would you _do_ that?"

"He asked."

Alistair grabbed her arm, dragging her bodily past the edge of the camp. "We're going."

"Are we? And what was it you said about personal delays?"

His hand twisted round her wrist, pulling her close as he glowered down at her. "You agreed to help me."

"I agreed to nothing." Her head tilted, smiling sweetly as she pressed against his chest. "And as for my assistance… it was offered to the Grey Warden, to aid him against the Blight. Not to go chasing after some Orlesian w—"

The slap rang out before he could stop himself. Gaping in horror, Alistair cradled his hand. But Morrigan only hissed, chuckling as she turned her eyes back to his. Still she stood close, fingers twisting against his collar as she pulled his mouth to hers.

So soft her lips, surprisingly so but… Alistair staggered backward, choking on a cough. "Andraste's flaming— What are you _doing_?"

There was a sway behind her steps as she moved toward him, unmindful of his warding hands. "'Tis the first backbone I have seen you show."

"You-you're insane! Maker's…"

Morrigan paused, that smile half-sneering. "If we assist these elves, will they honor the treaty?"

"Will wh—?" He pinched shut his eyes, the sudden change in direction setting his head to spinning. "…Yes. The Keeper said that—"

"Good." She nodded. "Let us at least be quick about it."

Alistair gaped at her a moment longer, keeping a wary eye over his shoulder as they moved deeper beneath the trees. "Just… just stay away. I mean it."

Following behind, Shale snorted. "It seeks to have the Warden dancing on Its strings, though I cannot see why. It is remarkably weak-willed and indecisive. Hardly a formidable ally."

"Be silent, golem."

The path narrowed immediately beyond the camp, winding up upon itself as it climbed beside a falling stream. There was light breaking through the canopy, the air cool and quiet and not entirely unpleasant. He found himself thinking of the strange elf that had led them here, almost wishing that the Dalish had provided some sort of guide. "Deep in the heart of the forest" didn't exactly point the way. It was some time before he realized just how still the trees were, as if the entire wood were holding its breath.

"Do you hear that? Nothing. No animals, no birds."

Beside him, Shale shifted. "It speaks as though this were a bad thing."

Morrigan arched a brow as she looked up at the golem. "I could become a bird if that would comfort you. Fly at your side, hovering always just out of reach—"

"—Shut up. Both of you. It's just… not right."

"The Swamp Witch has a great deal in common with my former master."

"Oh. 'Swamp Witch,' is it? And what, I wonder, do you—?"

It shook beneath them, the canopy creaking above as one of the trees bent low. Roots ripped free of earth, crashing into the path like living legs as its branches whipped toward them.

Alistair ducked, falling to his knees. "Whoa! What in the—?"

Shale was already charging toward the thing, undeterred by the stinging branches. One stony fist connected with its trunk, the tree letting out a near-human howl. Morrigan, too, had regained her feet, glaring up at the thing as she swung her staff round. Alistair could not hear the words, but he did hear her grunt with effort as flame burst amongst its leaves.

The scream was one of old decay, the tree sinking to knees that were not knees, twigs and branches and bark smoldering before winking out.

Morrigan smirked as he pushed himself to his feet. "Is that normal for you, then? Just another day in theWilds?"

She sniffed. "'Tis no magic I have seen before."

Alistair's eyes held to the trees, narrowing suspiciously. "Great. Werewolves and bears and Maker knows what else and now we have to worry about the _trees_?"

"And the birds. Vile, feathered fiends."

"Riiight…"

Morrigan, though, had turned away, looking to the path ahead. "If you are going to soil yourself, Alistair, perhaps you best start with them."

Three of the wolf-men hunched in the path ahead, more appearing in the trees to either side. The largest appeared to be watching them, eyes narrowing. There was something intelligent, something almost… human there. Alistair held up his hands, stepping forward slowly.

Morrigan hissed. "What are you—?"

"Leliana?" He couldn't be sure if they were male or female, the size, the hair… He moved closer, tilting his head to look up at the thing.

Morrigan grabbed his arm, pulling him back. "Do not be a fool!"

But the wolf snorted, blinking down at him with an odd twist of its head. "The Dalish send a human, of all things."

"Oh, hey! You _can_ talk."

It snarled, leaning low.

"I mean…" Alistair looked away, lowering his voice. "Well, I knew it. Knew I wasn't crazy."

"And yet you enter the Lady's forest." There was something almost like a laugh behind its growl. "You speak to Swiftrunner. I lead my cursed brothers and sisters."

"Yeah, about that curse." He looked to the trees, to the other wolves waiting there. "We're… we're looking for a friend of ours actually. She's… like you, I think."

"You have no friends here. Return to the old Keeper and tell him you have failed. Do not test us further."

"Hey! You attacked us!"

It shook its head, looking to the others. "Some of our brothers and sisters suffer still. They have not yet seen beyond the pain… the madness. But if you would judge us by them…" Swiftrunner backed slowly up the path, the first two following with him.

In the trees the others moved, dropping from the hills to ring them round. Most lopped slowly, bent double, their jaws dripping as they snarled. One reared back, looming over him now. Oh, Maker. There was nothing human here. The stench was foul as it leaned low, growling hot against his face. Alistair pinched shut his eyes.

But the pain did not come. It howled as it jerked away, staggering forward as the blade appeared beneath its ribs. The beast slumped as it was pulled free, crashing hard against him, knocking them both backward. But the others were moving now, snarls and cries echoing pained as they leapt down upon the path. He couldn't see… couldn't… The wolf had fallen still against him, the thick and heavy limbs pinning him down. From the sound of it, they were fleeing before Shale's bellows, Morrigan's flames. But beneath it all he heard that laugh, slithering familiar above the whirling whistle of spinning steel.

Silence then. Alistair started as the boot fell against the wolfman's side, rolling it off of him with a grunting chuckle. The face was upside down as it leaned over him, crouching just above his head. Zevran grinned.

"An interesting approach, though I must say the creature seemed rather immune to your charms."

Alistair pushed himself up onto his knees, one hand clamping hard round the elf's throat. The momentum of it threw them both backward, tumbling cross the path, but Alistair was clearly the stronger. He landed atop the assassin, pinning him down.

"Tsk. If you want to bed me, Alistair, you need only ask."

"You…" His eyes swung to the wolves, a half dozen of them lying scattered. The first lay where he had left it, eyes glazed and staring. He couldn't tell… didn't know… And he should have shouldn't, he? He should be able to tell which one had been…

Zevran was blinking up at him, tilting his head curiously. One hand fell against Alistair's chest, pushing him aside as he sat. "There is a problem?"

Alistair sank back on his heels, looking away. "If you… if you've killed her I swear…"

"Who?"

His eyes snapped up. "Leliana. She-she's… like them now. It's a curse. But if we can… kill the head wolf-thing, it might be enough to cure her."

"Leliana?" Zevran's brow rose, the merest smile playing behind his lips. "Ahh."

"What?"

"I have seen these wolves before… and not just this rabid sort. Two of them in the woods nearby, one grey and one a beautiful shade of red – or so I thought at the time. They did not attack, merely watched me. The white seemed to be injured, almost… weeping, if wolves can do such a thing. I saw its companion lay a hand on its arm." He nodded. "Curious, is it not?"

Alistair blinked. "You…?"

But Zevran had turned his attention to Morrigan now, laying a hand on Alistair's shoulder as he pushed to his feet. Moving toward her his grin spread wide.

"Do not touch me, elf."

He dropped into a sweeping bow. "Ahh, but I have not forgotten the other part of our… arrangement."

"Great. And what's that?" Supporting himself against a tree, Alistair grunted.

"Why, to protect you, of course. You do not think our dear Morrigan would send you against her wicked mother without taking every precaution?"

Alistair almost had to laugh for the expression on her face, hands curling round the staff as if she might bludgeon him with it. He shook his head. "Yeah. Great job with that, by the way. What with the getting knocked out."

Zevran chuckled. "Though I will admit that the oath has been somewhat more difficult to fulfill since you cast me out. I think that I will stay."

"Fine. Whatever. I really don't care anymore."

"And you say you are looking for the leader of the beasts, yes? I think I know where it is you need to go." He turned for the path without waiting, leaving Morrigan to glower at his back.

As Shale left them, she turned that glare to Alistair instead. "'Tis not my place to say, but I think that you are making a grave—"

"—That good, huh?"

"What?"

"You must have done _something_ to inspire such loyalty." He quirked a brow. "This deal he speaks of… I've got to admit, I'm a bit curious. Morbidly so."

"Perhaps I could show you. You may even enjoy it."

Shaking his head, Alistair smirked and stepped round. "Yeeah… I think I'd rather die."

This, at last, seemed to silence her.

It held as they walked on, the woods again becoming silent, the walk almost pleasant. Zevran, strangely enough, seemed to know where he was going, leading them down a sloping path to a riverside clearing, empty save for a single tree. Alistair recognized the sound this time, the slither of leaves, the groan of old branches. He drew his sword as the thing bent low, bracing behind his shield.

"Hah! Not this time, tree!"

Zevran tsked. Shaking his head, he placed a hand over Alistair's, lowering the blade.

_"The strange elf has returned, I see.  
Hast thou any news for me?"_

"Wait, you _know_ the tree?"

_"I asked a boon when first he passed.  
To see what was stolen returned at last."_

Alistair gaped. "Riiight… this is very creepy."

Beside him, Morrigan sniffed. "For once we agree. I cannot imagine when sort of spirit is involved here."

Zevran ignored them both, producing something from his pockets with a flourish as he bowed. "As promised. And no easy task, that."

The leaves sighed as the tree bent low, its smallest branches taking what appeared to be an acorn from the elf's outstretched hand.

_"My joy soars to new heights indeed!  
I am reunited with my seed!"_

"An acorn? And you talk to trees now?" Alistair quirked a brow. "Are you sure you're not Dalish?"

"My mother was Dalish, since you ask. But I assure you, I am not." Looking up at the tree his eyes narrowed. "And our bargain?"

Again it bent low, branches shifting to pull free one of the smaller twigs.

_"Bear you now this promised gift.  
Let its magic pass you through the rift."_

"Wait, what?"

Zevran turned to them with a bemused smirk, dropping the branch into Alistair's hand. "The center of the forest is guarded by a barrier. This tree agreed to grant me access in exchange to the recovery of its little one there."

"Its acorn."

"Yes."

"And why were _you_ trying to get to the center of the forest?"

His grin spread wide. "Why, for the treasure, of course! Marvelous ruins and Tervinter, so they say. Who knows what we might find?"

"What about the wolves? Leliana?"

He laughed. "Why not? There is always time for a daring rescue, yes?"

Moving to the nearby stream Alistair shook his head, crouching to blink down at his reflection. The grass rose here in a small hillock, sunlit and overlooking the waters. It was peaceful… so peaceful. He found himself yawning.

"A camp? And abandoned by the look of it." Morrigan stepped round, crouching beside the waiting bedrolls.

"Perhaps we should stop, no? Just for a moment?"

They had a point, really. The wolves would still be there in the morning. Alistair looked to Shale. "I don't suppose you have an opinion? Seeing as how you don't sleep and all?"

The golem sighed. "I may be a superior construct, but carrying Its inventory is most tedious. Perhaps I will set it down a while."

"Right then. Good." Moving to the still-smoldering fire, Alistair let himself sink heavy against the waiting blankets. So tired… and yet so… His eyes fell shut.

* * *

The trees were thinner here, the leaves above shifting to dapple the clearing with brilliant light. It was warm, calm, perfect. He was no longer afraid

They moved slow, the small party of elves bearing a litter between them. Such sadness, but they did not seem to see him, moving almost as in a daze. One of the young women scowled, chin held proud and strong, the quiver there almost imperceptible as they lay their burden in the center of the clearing.

"Here. This is the spot." The voice was strained, rasping, the man that they had borne falling to coughing. As the others moved aside, Alistair saw him, recognized him.

Head lolling, the elf opened his eyes, smile twisting pained to see him there. It was the boy from the Fade, the man who had led him to the Dalish. And Dalish they were, the words chanted now beyond Alistair's understanding. A blessing perhaps, a final goodbye, but still the elf's gaze held to his, uncaring of the pain as his limbs twitched.

One by one the others moved away, disappearing into the trees, leaving him behind. Only the girl remained.

"Merrill."

She shuddered visibly, turning her eyes away.

"Merrill. Your blade."

"My—?"

He attempted to prop an elbow beneath him, falling back against the litter with a hiss of pain. "Please."

She looked round, crouching quick beside him as she drew the dagger from her belt. Those hands shook, her lips twisting as his grip tightened over hers.

"Now go."

"But—"

Again it racked him, back arching as he screamed. The girl tripped over her robes in her haste to back away, the tears flowing freely as she bolted into the trees.

After a long moment, the spasms passed, the elf's chest heaving as he again looked to Alistair. With a shaking smile, he pressed fingers to his heart. But before Alistair could move, he lifted high the blade, plunging it deep between his ribs.

"No!"

Blood trickled from the edges of his lips as Alistair knelt beside him, but the elf was smiling still. "You should wake up now."

Opening his eyes, Alistair heard the screams.


	21. The Brecilian Ruins

Rolling onto his side, Alistair pressed hands over his ears. The screams burst keening, rising, swelling, shrieking. One might have been his own, but the others…

Earth burst beside his head, a long and spiked claw driven deep as a weight fell crushing against his chest. The creature leaned low, jaws gnashing as he braced an arm between them, the shriek flicking heat and spittle into his eyes. With a grunt, Alistair curled his knees, a desperate kick sending the thing flying.

But his vision blurred, hands groping blindly for his sword. He found himself being lifted, set hastily but almost gently aside.

"For one whose purpose is to kill darkspawn, I find It remarkably ineffective."

Alistair blinked, vision clearing enough to catch something of Shale's scowl as it turned away. The small camp was overrun, the creatures seeming to flicker in and out of sight, howling as they slashed and clawed. Three of them leapt upon the golem; it staggered but kept its feet.

"If you haven't noticed, these aren't exactly your ordinary darkspawn."

Shale growled.

"And an ambush! Strange, no?" Zevran darted past, blade plunging deep into a shriek's middle as it reappeared.

"Right." Bringing up his shield, Alistair spun round. "Wait…. where's Morrigan?"

Two more of the creatures seemed to materialize before him, knocked aside as a third came crashing out of the darkness. No, not a darkspawn. Dripping jaws and slashing pincers, but it hulked great and stinking and many-legged, snapping off one of the beast's heads with ease. The other had turned again for Alistair, but the spider leapt, pinning all three of them to the ground as it drove one of its clawed legs through the shriek's back.

Pulling it free, the spider seemed to roll the beast aside, settling against Alistair's chest. Its head tilted, jaws dripping still.

"Um…"

It was only then that he realized that the clearing was silent, the fighting over. But that wasn't… it… ah…

The spider had shifted before his eyes, trembling against him, shrinking, changing. Morrigan propped an elbow on his chest as she blinked down at him. One… very… _naked_ elbow. Her smirk turned wicked.

"It is fortunate you did not have to slay the beasts with wit. We may all have perished."

"I…"

She rose slow, sliding along the length of him. "I shall take that as thanks." Turning away, she bent to retrieve her clothing. Maker, he should look away. Why wasn't he looking away?

"That was..."

"Impressive?"

"I was going to go with weird."

"Come, my friend." Grin openly appraising, Zevran bent to help him to his feet. "It is not as though you have not found yourself in this situation before. Or have you forgotten that rather delicious encounter with myself and Leliana?"

Morrigan turned with a scowl, straightening her robes. True, they didn't cover much, but now that he knew what was beneath…

"Oh?"

"Oh yes! In the Temple of Andraste, was it not? A most delightful metaphor for worldly possessions and rebirth and…"

But Alistair's gaze was drawn away up the path, ignoring Morrigan's icy glare as he stepped between them. One of the darkspawn lingered still, cowering on the edge of the trees. It glanced up as he approached, but the hiss was only half-formed, devolving into a racking cough as it shied away. "Don't… look… at me!"

Grey and shifting as the others had been, but its features were almost… human. When Alistair didn't move, it spared another fearful glance. Not human. An elf.

"Are you—"

"—No! No, no, no!"

"Hey…" His hand hesitated near the creature's shoulder. "… maybe we can…?"

It reared back, twisted and blackened fingers swiping for his face. But they fell short, the elf falling heavy into the dirt. Back heaving, it raised its head. "Kill… me…"

"I can't…"

Again it hissed, leaping for him. Alistair did not remember the sword in his hand until it was too late. The creature sagged there, raising wide and watering eyes to his. But something seemed to startle it, head tilting in wonder as its mouth fell slack.

"…Theron?"

Staggering back, Alistair let him fall. He could not say why, but suddenly his shoulders felt heavy, something stinging behind his eyes.

He almost didn't notice when Shale passed him. "Congratulations. You killed one."

* * *

Still the dazed feeling held as they made their way toward the center of the forest. The shimmering barrier had provided a moment's hesitation, but the old tree's branch was apparently effective, allowing them to pass though with no more than a vague tingling sensation. Beyond the forest was even quieter, the magic thicker as Morrigan had remarked. Right. Morrigan. She had been quietly trying to needle him all the while, brow drawing low as she finally gave up. It almost looked like… concern.

But save for a single wolfman darting furtively into the looming ruins, they had seen no sign of life. Alistair almost wondered if they were in the wrong place, but the crumbling columns and winding passageways did seem to be at the very center of the forest, and properly creepy. Where else would they go?

Down and down they had wound, finding only thick-strung cobwebs and room after room of stale and chilly air.

"If the Painted Elf straps one more chalice to my back, I will relieve it of the burden of its head." With a rumbling sigh, Shale let the packs fall to the ground. They had stopped again in what appeared to be a long-abandoned vault, the golem's droning complaints doing little to stay the elf's eagerness.

Zevran was already bending to a large, stone slab, heaving it aside with a grunt. "As you have said yourself, my sturdy friend, you are a splendidly superior construct. I am sure we would be quite lost without you."

Alistair quirked a brow. "Is that a…?"

"Sarcophagus? Why, yes."

"So we're stealing from the dead now?"

His feet left the floor as he leaned deeper into the tomb. "They have never objected. Why should you?"

"But must we really stop for every chest? Every broken crate?"

"And risk missing something important to your mission? Tsk." Wriggling free, he pulled with him a dusty suit of armor, smiling as he brushed away the old and flaking webbing. "Ahh."

"Right, yes. Very important."

With a shrug, Zevran tugged off his leathers, tossing them squarely onto Shale's head. Dodging a swiping blow, he pulled the mail on in its place, running his fingers across the overlapping scales. It _was_ a rather nice chestplate, lighter than it had first looked and intricately worked in shifting golds and greens.

"And it fits as well! Marvelous!"

Alistair shook his head.

"Let me crush the Painted Elf. It will not be missed."

"Dear, dear Shale. I do not suppose _this_ would be of interest to you, then?" Zevran produced a glinting, flawless gem, rolling it across the backs of his fingers with a chuckle.

Shale's eyes narrowed.

"Tsk. Oh well." He shrugged, flicking it back into the sarcophagus.

"Fine, fine. Give it here."

Zevran dropped the stone into the golem's hand with a grin.

"Interesting that it can be persuaded with shiny trinkets." Morrigan turned from the door with a sniff.

"Hag."

"And yet you insist—"

"—The Swamp Witch's mother was literally _a hag_, was she not? I see no reason why It will not end up the same."

Before she could reply, something shifted in the shadows beyond the door, the telltale slithering hiss of whatever had spun those webs.

"Thank the Maker!" Alistair darted from the room, sword already spinning as the first of the spiders dropped from the ceiling. Half a dozen there were, hissing and spitting and… somehow he found himself flushing.

Morrigan appeared at his side, raising her staff in a burst of cool air.

"Relatives of yours?"

"This is what passes for gratitude, is it?" She ducked aside, still managing to fix him with a knowing smirk.

"I'm just saying. I can see the resemblance."

"Do not pretend you did not enjoy it."

"Oh. Right. Sure." Alistair thrust his blade through one of the creatures, shoving it aside. "How about this? No more shapeshifting."

"'Tis an order, is it?"

He didn't seen the last spider, grunted as it pinned him to the wall. Dropping his sword, he got a hand round either of its snapping pinchers, turning his face aside as it leaned close to hiss.

Morrigan slung her staff over her back and folded her arms. "Do you require assistance?"

Struggling still, Alistair gained a bit of leverage. "No… it's… fine… I've got it."

She turned away, leaving him grappling. For their part, Shale and Zevran seemed content to watch.

"Maker's…" With a sharp jerk he twisted, snapping the beast's head round. As it fell, he bent to recover his sword, raising his eyes with a glare. "Just… keep your clothes on."

Zevran gave an exaggerated sigh, but Alistair was already moving up the hall. There were stairs here, descending to yet another arched and imposing door. He shouldered it aside without a thought.

"Hrrr. They have breached the chamber! Protect the Lady!"

Alistair only had a moment to recognize the wolf from the forest before the others slipped forward. So many of them there were, more pouring in from what appeared to be adjoining rooms. Unsheathing his blade, he turned, trying to face every direction at once as the others moved behind him.

"Stop! He will not hurt you."

Swiftrunner whirled with a growl, the ranks parting as one of the wolves pushed its way through. "You have not yet earned the right to speak."

The other straightened, using every inch of her now considerable height. It was a glare he recognized, a glare that somehow brought a smile to his face.

"Leliana."

She turned, glancing just as quickly away. But there was no mistaking her eyes. Zevran had been right; her fur was a soft red, seeming to slide like fiery silk as she moved. There was a grace there beneath that thick and sinewy muscle, somehow seeming all the more familiar for its exaggeration.

Again the crowd stirred, the wolf that appeared behind her glancing about hunched and furtive. It was to this one that Leliana turned her attention, bending with a thick and grumbling whisper. "Hush, Danyla. This is the one I told you about; this is the one who will cure us."

Swiftrunner barked a laugh. "Then we have very different goals, outsider. We seek only to make the elves pay for what they have done."

"If that were true, why not just kill them? No. I think that you have hope still." Finally she raised her eyes, meeting Alistair's gaze across the room. She blinked. "What?"

He realized he was smiling, ran a sheepish hand through his hair. "I… heh. I didn't know wolves could have accents."

Her lips twitched, but the effect was little more than an awkward snarl. She shook her head. "The Keeper, Zathrian, he offered a cure, yes? That much I remember."

"Zathrian." Swiftrunner growled. "No, the elves would not tell you the truth of it. Come. If you truly wish to speak with the Lady, we will let her decide what to do with you."

He turned without waiting for a response, moving toward the inner doors as another pair of wolves pushed them aside. Alistair attempted to overtake Leliana, but she only spared him a fleeting glance, losing herself amongst the others.

The chamber beyond was bright and high-ceilinged, sunlight streaming down from the cracks where green had forced its way through stone. More wolves waited here, ringing a broken and vine-covered dais. Swiftrunner took his place at their center, kneeling to the light.

It was a moment before Alistair saw it, the deep shadow of the vines seeming to shift, moving slow to stand at Swiftrunner's side. The woman was grey of skin, her eyes deep and pupiless pools, her shadowy hair seeming to twist into the shape of vine and leaf as it clung sparingly to her swaying form.

Behind him, he could hear Zevran chuckle. "And suddenly Morrigan looks like a Chantry sister."

Morrigan snorted.

"Tsk. Do not be bitter."

The woman was swaying still, shifting as in an unseen breeze.

Alistair shook his head. "So… you're Witherfang?"

"I am… and yet I am not." Her words, too, seemed to echo, the gentle whisper of stirring leaves. "I am a spirit of the forest, bound long ago to the form of a wolf."

Swiftrunner's eyes narrowed. "Zathrian."

"Wait… he _did_ this? I mean, to you?"

Her nod was slow, calm. "Long ago. An act of vengeance for crimes visited against his family. He summoned me, bound me, cursed the humans responsible. Memory may have faded, but the magic lingers still."

"How old is Zathrian, exactly?"

She smiled but made no response.

"You know he sent us here to kill you, said that it was the only cure." Alistair glanced round, saw the wolves shift restless.

"A truth and yet not. My death will not be enough. His will be required as well."

"Yeah, he failed to mention that."

A commotion at the outer door spun him round, the eyes of the wolves snapping to the pair snarling there. Zathrian moved before them, steps regal but clearly forced, only the scowl belying the fact that he was not there of his own accord.

Swiftrunner snarled. "You really thought you would just walk in here undetected?"

"Yes."

Alistair coughed.

But the elf held his ground, something behind his expression hardening as he looked to the Lady. "Spirit."

"Zathrian." She gave a small bow.

"Why is she not dead yet?" He turned that glare to Alistair now.

"I… we were talking."

"Hah. They are mindless animals. What have they to talk about?"

"Not so, Zathrian. They are no longer the beasts you knew. I have taught them to control their savagery, to rediscover their true nature."

"Oh, yes. And it suited them so well before."

"You have every right to be angry." Leliana pushed through the crowd, nodding her head as Zathrian sneered. "What was done to you was horrible, unforgivable. But does this bring you satisfaction? Does it still?"

He blinked up at her, eyes flashing curious. "What trickery is this, Spirit?"

"As I have told you. They are not as you believe."

"You have caused much pain, Zathrian." Leliana stepped closer. "But has it truly lessened your own? Has it not only prolonged it?"

He seemed to sag then, shaking his head. "No, no I feel it still." Slowly, he raised his eyes to the Lady's. "And you, Spirit?"

She only smiled.

"I do not wish your death." Leliana held out a hesitant hand.

Looking to it, Zathrian smiled, stepping away and toward the dais. "Perhaps I do."

The wolves snarled at his approach, but a gesture from the Lady set them shifting aside.

"You are my maker, Zathrian. You have shown me life but now, at your hands, I desire nothing more than an end."

"Then let us be done with it."

The wolves pressed round, moving as if at some unseen sign. Alistair was pushed aside, stumbling back against the others with a wondering shake of his head. Morrigan seemed to be craning her neck, attempting to see something of the magic involved while Shale looked utterly bored, glaring fixedly at the holes in the roof. Zevran wore a bemused smile.

"What?"

"It is nothing."

The wave seemed to shake the very stone, knocking the wolves to their knees in a blinding flash of light. Alistair found himself thrown against the wall, reeling as the first gasps reached his ears. Of Zathrian and the spirit there was no sigh, but the room was full now of humans, a handful of elves. He barely noted their nakedness, so quickly did his eyes roam.

He saw her then, coming pained to her feet, supporting an elven woman against her shoulder. Leaping the others, he dashed to her side. "I…"

Leliana turned, brushing the hair from her eyes. Alistair felt his mouth go slack.

It took a moment for her expression to falter, to read the horror in his gaze. Raising trembling fingers, she felt along her neck, following the broken flesh up and cross her cheek. Eyes pinching shut, she shuddered, a tear trickling along the scars. Again, she made as if to bolt, but Alistair caught her arm.

"No."

She would not look at him.

"Hey."

Turning her face to his, he traced his fingers there, pulling her into a crushing kiss.


	22. The West Road

"Athras?"

The elf straightened from his work, blinking in disbelief as he turned. "D-Danyla?"

The woman pulled Leliana into a hasty embrace before dashing cross the camp. There was a tired smile there as she watched her go, lips twisting as the scars pulled tight.

"What was that about?"

She shied away to find Alistair watching her, flushed for his smile. "He is her husband. She never thought that she would see him again."

"You did a good thing."

"When I found her, she begged me to kill her." She raised her eyes to his. "The pain was more than she could bear."

"The pain?"

"It was like a fire in the blood, a searing beneath the skin. Constant. Consuming. I-I have never felt anything like it."

"You…" Alistair stepped closer, slipping an arm round her shoulders. "I didn't know."

"And I do not think I will ever forget." Her laugh was bitter, almost manic. "At least now we understand why they were so angry."

"Yeah. That's not funny." Pulling her into a hug, he shook his head.

"Does anyone else feel the urge to vomit? No? 'Tis just me?" Morrigan paused beside them with a sneer, eyes straying to the embracing elven couple.

Another elf pushed past, arms laden with bandages, her shoulder bumping hard against Morrigan as she turned. Young though she was, the girl met the witch glare for glare, continuing on her way with a sniff.

"This is what passes for gratitude, is it? Fine allies you have chosen."

The girl knelt beside one of the cots, bending to change the dressings on the leg of a familiar boy.

"Gheyna, please. You don't have to…"

She lay a hand on his chest, forcing him back. "I still don't understand what you were thinking, going out there alone. You could have been killed!"

The boy's eyes flickered to Morrigan before turning back to watch the girl fuss with the bandages around his head. As she leaned low, he smiled.

Alistair, too, was grinning as he watched Morrigan's expression. "There're some bushes over there if you need a moment."

With a final glower, she stalked away.

But Sten and Wynne had spotted them now, making their way through the crowd. The camp did seem to be celebrating, their success obvious well before their arrival. No longer did the sick lay crying, though many still seemed to move about in a disbelieving daze.

As they approached, Sten flexed his arm, the skin healed and unmarked.

"Oh, good." Alistair smirked. "Wait, you're not going to hit me or anything, are you?"

"Perhaps."

But Wynne's gaze had moved to Leliana, stepping now from behind him. "Oh, child." She pulled her into a quick embrace, leaning back to run her fingers over the scars, tugging the tunic away from her shoulder to examine the deeper wound. They were lighter now, Alistair realized, not blackened as they had been before her transformation. Old they looked, the skin puckered and overly smooth, as if they had tried to heal long ago.

After a long moment, Wynne shook her head. "I do not understand why—"

"—Zathrian said that it was something to do with the healing. It actually made it worse." A young elven woman stepped round, moving to peer over Wynne's shoulder. "She's lucky to be alive at all."

The old mage flinched as Leliana turned away but the elf seemed to take no notice, meeting Alistair's glare with a heavy sigh.

"Zathrian followed you and yet he does not return."

"No, he… he broke the curse. And it cost him his life." Alistair stilled his features. "He was a hero."

The woman's eyes narrowed, the doubt there clear. "That is kind of you to say, but I always suspected that Zathrian knew more of the curse than he let on. But you have honored your part of the agreement and we will honor ours. I will send word to the other clans. When you face the Blight, we will be at your back."

He nodded. Then had done what they came to do. But his eyes strayed cross the camp, watched Wynne sink heavy onto a cot, Leliana stare blankly out into the trees. Even Zevran seemed strangely quiet, sitting beside one of the fires and watching the elves as he turned his gloves over in his hands. Only Morrigan met his gaze.

Alistair turned away. Right. Mission accomplished.

* * *

They made camp just beyond the West Road, the night cool and clear, the stars just visible above the thinning trees. She watched them, laying on her back beside her tent, lips moving silently as she recounted the song beneath her breath. It had been something about lovers, hadn't it? Lovers immortalized in the night sky. Alistair wished he could remember, wished he had the nerve to ask her to tell the tale again.

As he watched, Leliana seemed to shake herself, sitting to pull her lute into her lap. It was the first time he had seen her touch the instrument in days. Alistair smiled.

But he wasn't the only one watching. Wynne had pitched her own tent some way beyond the others, sitting curled before the flap with a book to hand. If he wasn't mistaken, it had been a long while since she had actually turned the page. Rising slow, Alistair moved to stand beside her.

"Good book?"

She started, eyes narrowing as she looked up at him. Troubled or no, that glare made his intrusion clear.

He crouched, bending to get a look at the cover. "_Nevarran Nights_, huh? What's it about?"

Wynne arched a brow. "Nothing you would be interested in, I'm sure."

"Oh, I don't know. I quite like reading, actually. It's one of the things I miss most about the Chantry. Maybe the only thing."

She passed the book to him without a word.

"What's an 'Antivan milk sandwich?'" Alistair read on, eyes going wide. "Oh. _Oh._" Handing it back to her, he swallowed hard.

Wynne smirked.

Across the clearing, Leliana had begun to play a wandering melody, the notes swelling soft and sad and melancholy. He didn't need to look the see the mage's face fall, the sigh heavy as she slumped.

"Still brooding, are we?"

"I am _not_ brooding."

"Oh really? Book just not holding your attention?" He leaned close. "Nothing interesting about 'Reginald's quivering….' Wow."

She snapped the book shut with a shake of her head. "I have made my share of mistakes, Alistair. But unfortunately acceptance does not forgive us our guilt."

"It wasn't your fault."

"I should have been able to do more. I was so certain. And because of that I acted rashly."

"It was the curse. You couldn't have known." He watched Leliana falter, the final chord twanging sour as she flexed a suddenly shaking hand. "If anyone's to blame, it's Zathrian."

Alistair had made as if to rise but Zevran was there then, sitting beside Leliana to rub a soothing hand across her shoulders.

He sank back. "And speaking of certainty… I wanted to ask you about something. When I… ran off… when I found the Dalish…"

"Ah." Wynne nodded, watching him from the corner of her eye.

"'Ah'? You _knew_?"

"That something was guiding you?" Her lips twitched. "Or would you have me believe that you had suddenly been blessed with a sense of direction?"

"Hey!"

She turned full to face him now, arching a brow.

Alistair ran a hand through his hair. "But I… saw something. It was more than that sense that you described before. I think… I think I'm going mad."

"You are many things, Alistair, but I would not call you mad." She tsked. "What was it you saw?"

"A… man. Well, an elf. He showed me where to go. And it's not the first time."

"You have seen him before."

"In the Tower, the Fade. And there were others." He watched her closely now. "I asked you about them."

The tightening of her jaw was almost imperceptible. "I remember."

"And…? You don't think there might be something important you could tell me?"

She sighed. "You asked me about children."

"That's what I saw."

Wynne shook her head, raising her chin. "I did not know the children, but the way you described them—"

"—An elven girl, very pale, kind of… smirking. The boy was human, dark hair, braided. Somehow looked like he might be trouble, though I don't know—"

She chuckled, the smile sad. "—That he was. Though mischievous might be a better word for it. Not the kind I would have thought to be mixed up in…"

"In?"

It was a long moment before she spoke again. "They were not children, but I know the woman, the man of whom you speak. Neria Surana and Daylen Amell. They were both apprentices."

Alistair mouthed the names, testing them. "And they died, didn't they? When the tower broke."

Wynne shook her head. "Some weeks before. There was… a blood mage. Jowan. He convinced them…"

"Wait. Jowan?"

Her eyes narrowed dangerously.

"He's the… the mage that poisoned Arl Eamon."

"And where is he now?"

Alistair shrugged. "Locked back in the dungeons of Redcliff Castle, so far as I know."

"Good."

"So I'm guessing the Tower will want him back, then? Righteous vengeance and all that?"

Wynne only shook her head. "I'm sure he is fine where he is for the moment. I take it there are rats?"

"Big ones."

"Good."

Alistair glanced sideways at her. "You are a very scary lady."

Leliana had passed the lute to Zevran now, leaning over his shoulder to guide his fingers along the strings. Right. Great. Why did this look like a bad idea? Alistair found himself coming to his feet.

"Alistair. Your elf…"

"Theron. I think his name was Theron." He sighed. "It's… something one of the darkspawn said. I was dreaming of him and it said it and… it just seems right."

She nodded.

"But… the others. Were they… important? I thought maybe they were mages, but…"

Her lips pressed into a thoughtful smile. "No more important than you or I, I'd say. But maybe that's not what matters."

"Wow. I actually understood that. You're sure I'm not going mad?"

"No, Alistair. I don't think you're going mad."

He turned with a shake of his head. "Right. Just seeing dead people then. No problem."

Zevran glanced up at his approach, wincing as Leliana forcibly twisted his fingers into an awkward position.

Shaking her head, she studiously avoided Alistair's gaze. "I do not understand how an assassin can have such clumsy hands."

He chuckled. "They have their uses, I assure you."

"You would make a horrible thief."

"That, my dear, would depend on what it is that I am stealing." He fixed Alistair with a knowing smirk. "Are you a fan of poetry, my friend? There is one in particular that comes to mind. Perhaps I can find a tune for it."

"Um… no. No thanks. I just wanted to… We'll reach the main road tomorrow morning. A few more days and we can be in Denerim."

Leliana's head snapped up, eyes narrowing. Extricating herself from the strange embrace, she came to her feet. "You said that we were going to Orzammar."

"I… I changed my mind. I wanted to say I—"

"—You need the dwarves, no? Then that is where we must go."

"But what about—?"

"—It is not important. This, the Blight… that is what matters." She whirled without another word, stalking off into the trees.

Alistair stared after her for a long moment. He should go after her, would go after her, but a strange thought occurred to him. "What was her name?"

"Mmm?" Zevran plucked a string, positioning his fingers as Leliana had shown him. "You are speaking to me?"

"The woman the Guardian spoke of." He turned to find the assassin watching him. "What happened?"

"Perhaps another time, my friend."

Alistair squatted beside him. "You're the one who said I never bothered to ask. So I'm asking."

The look was long, level, dangerous.

"She's dead. And I can only assume that you killed her." He sighed. "All I want to know is… does it get any easier?"

"Ahh." Zevran's eyes strayed to the trees, shaking his head with a whispered chuckle. "If it is absolution you seek, perhaps you should have stayed in your Chantry."

"Fine. Thanks." He pushed himself to his feet.

"Her name was Rinna. She was… a marvel. Dark and smooth and wicked and—"

Alistair paused, blinking down at him. "—You loved her. Then why would you…?"

"I was told that she had betrayed me. So I turned my back on her, spat on her as she denied it, as she begged. She told me that she loved me and I told her that I did not care. But I did not do the deed myself. Even then, I could not bear it, could not even bear to watch. Taliesin told me later that he had made it painful, made it slow. Because I had asked him to."

"And did she? Betray you?"

Zevran snorted. "You have already guessed the answer. But by the time I found out it was too late."

"I… Zevran, I'm sorry."

"To answer your question…" He shook his head, hunching low as he plucked a solemn chord. "No. No, it does not get easier."

Alistair watched him for a moment longer, trying in vain to find something more to say. But Zevran was studiously ignoring him now, the hair falling cross his eyes as he turned away. Starting toward the trees, Alistair sighed.

Morrigan slipped from her tent as he passed. "Alistair…"

"No. Not now. Not ever." He disappeared beneath the shadows without a backward glance.

There had been a pond not far beyond the camp, a small and secluded wayspot for travelers venturing from the road. Leliana crouched beside it, watching her reflection in the darkened waters. She did not seem surprised as he moved to stand behind her, her eyes flickering now between the wavering images.

"I enjoyed being beautiful." She chuckled. "A horrible thing to say, no? But my life in Orlais… it was glamorous, exciting. The clothes, the shoes, the gardens of Val Royeaux… I loved all of it. I loved being a part of it. And now I am a part of this." She turned her face away.

Alistair knelt beside her, hand hesitating before brushing aside her hair.

"I know what you are trying to do. And I am grateful. But the reason I do not want to go to Denerim, the true reason…" She raised her eyes. "I do not want Marjolaine to see me like this. I know it sounds foolish…"

"No. Not at all."

"And if we do not go to Orzammar… if we do not gather your army… if we do not defeat the Blight… then this…" Again, she looked to the waters. "…_this_ is all for nothing."

Alistair curled his legs beneath him, the stones beneath his boots skittering into the pond. The ripples broke wide, their images fading. He turned her face back to his.

"You do not have to do this, not anymore."

"Do what?"

At his grin, her scowl only deepened. "You do not have to look at me."

"I just so happen to _like_ looking at you. And you're not the only one with scars, you know." He slipped his hands beneath his tunic, lifting it over his head.

Leliana quirked a brow.

"Here… see this one?" Alistair twisted his arm, showing her the top of his shoulder. One of those skeletons back in Redcliff got a lucky shot. "And here…" He lifted his other arm, revealing the puckered gash along his side. "…I think this one was Zevran, actually."

She chuckled. "If that was Zevran, I think you would be dead."

"Fair point." Pushing up onto his knees, he unclasped his belt. "There's a _huge_ one on my thigh. The ogre in the Tower of Ishal. Did I ever tell you…?" He trailed off, face flushing as he realized what he was doing.

"It is alright. I suspect I will have to get used to it." Her snort was bitter as she moved to stand.

Alistair caught her wrist. "Oh no, I didn't mean… I just… I've never…" It was his turn to avert his eyes.

"Oh. _Oh_." Leliana sank beside him, her surprised cough hiding something that sounded suspiciously like a giggle. "It is nothing I did not see in the temple, you know. And you have seen me. And recently."

"I wasn't exactly complaining."

She moved in one fluid motion, lifting her leathers up and over her head.

Alistair's grin turned crooked. "See? It's not so bad." Sliding closer, he traced gentle fingers down her neck and cross her shoulder. The wound was almost luminous in the dim, surprisingly smooth and soft.

Leliana winced at the touch, letting her eyes fall closed as she heaved a shaking sigh. She leaned into him then, lips warm against his ear. "I would like to see your scar."

* * *

Alistair stirred against her chest, the dream threatening on the edges of waking. Still they lay beside the pond, the sky lightening beneath the first rays of dawn. His murmurs were fitful, the words only half-formed.

"I'm sorry… I could be… should be… better. At everything."

Leliana lay a kiss against his forehead. "You are doing just fine."


	23. Orzammar

"It is called Winter's Kiss. It grows only in the high places and is said to be the favorite of Empress Celene." Leliana had paused beside Sten, following his gaze to the flowers growing along the road. "In Weisshaupt they cultivate entire fields of them."

The Qunari grunted, turning his eyes quickly away. "They are useful, then?"

"Not in the way you mean. But they are quite beautiful, no?" She laughed as she bent to pluck one of the buds from the roadside. "If you like them, perhaps I could braid some into your hair?"

Alistair passed them up, trying to hide a grin as the big man glowered. The walk to Orzammar had been uneventful so far, even the growing cold and the rising of the mountain road doing little to slow them. It should have been disquieting and yet…

He found himself falling into step beside Wynne. Glancing back over her shoulder, she smirked. "You have been avoiding me."

"Me? I… no I haven't. Why would I do that? You're my favoritest mage ever."

Perhaps he _had_ been avoiding her. Just a bit. After a decidedly awkward morning conversation, he and Leliana had agreed that it was best to keep what they had… keep their relationship something of a secret. They had both been able to return to their tents before anyone else was awake, sneaking out again after they made camp that night and… Well, he had certainly seen spending a lot of time in forests and overgrown fields and that one convenient hillock by the lake and…

"And yet you seem to have gone all red and mottled. How cute."

Wynne, though, Wynne had just seemed to _know_.

"So I suppose you have some sort of motherly advice, then? Some warning about distractions or heartbreak or how we're all just going to die anyway?"

She chuckled. "I was merely going to say that it is nice to see her smiling again."

"Ah. Still feeling guilty, are we?"

Glancing sideways, she saw him smile. "Perhaps. Or perhaps it is only good to know that there is some happiness left in the world."

"Oh, come on. I've seen the looks. I know you want to say _something_."

"Now that you mention it, this might be a good time to tell you where babies come from."

"Maker's breath! I know where babies come from!"

Wynne laughed, shaking her head as a hand clapped Alistair on the back. Zevran caught him as he stumbled in surprise, throwing a companionable arm round his shoulders.

"Congratulations, my friend! I had almost begun to doubt that you… ahh, well. Never mind that now." He grinned. "You know, I have some herbs from home should you find yourself in need of increased—"

"—Whoa. Okay. We aren't actually talking about this, are we?"

"If you prefer, I could speak with Leliana."

"She wouldn't… wait. Would she?"

Zevran chuckled at his panicked expression.

Alistair sighed. "Does everyone know, then?"

"That you are an insufferable child?" Morrigan had stopped in the path ahead, turning to watch them with a withering glare.

"Ahh. See, my friend? I, too, have often been called insufferable. Usually right before I ended up in bed with someone." Zevran looked between them with a wicked smirk.

"Not helping."

Morrigan turned on her heel, stalking away up the path.

"Tsk. Such jealousy. Perhaps I should comfort her, yes?" He hurried after her before Alistair could protest.

Looking to Wynne, Alistair rubbed a hand behind his neck, realized how stiffly he'd been standing. "You don't think she's actually…? I mean, why would she…?"

"I don't know, Alistair." Her eyes narrowed as she watched Morrigan lengthen her stride to keep ahead of Zevran. "But I would not take her lightly."

"Great."

* * *

"_Veata._"

Alistair shielded his eyes, leaning back to follow the rise of the looming mountain doors. He almost didn't see the dwarf glaring up at him, the other guards stiffening at his back.

"Oh. Um… hello." Why did such a little people need such big doors anyway? "I… I have need to speak with your king."

"Another human messenger?" The dwarf scowled. "Like I told the last one: Orzammar is sealed."

"Sealed? Why?"

He sighed. "King Endrin Aeducan has returned to the Stone. Until the Assembly sorts out the matter of succession, we've enough problems of our own. You can go back and tell Loghain that we don't bow to him or any surfacer lord."

"Good."

He snorted. "You're not one of his, then?"

Fishing in his packs, Alistair retrieved the treaty, handing it over for the guard's inspection. "I am Alistair of the Grey Wardens. This treaty compels Orzammar to aid us during a Blight."

The dwarf's eyes snapped up, flickering shadowed. "A Blight then. They said the Deeps had gone quiet." He shook his head, stepping aside to usher him through. "This is the royal seal. Only the Assembly can help you."

Glancing over his shoulder, Alistair nodded to the others.

The guard, though, held up a hand. "You're _all_ Grey Wardens?"

"No… just me."

"Then I can't let them in. Just you."

"But they travel with me."

"Look, we've got enough problems of our own. We don't need a whole crowd of surfacers stirring things— By the Stone! Is that a _golem_?"

Shale had moved up the ramp to the doors, scowling down at the dwarf. Alistair was suddenly aware of just how many eyes were on them.

After a long moment, the guardsman shook his head. "You can take three."

"Three? Why three?"

He shrugged.

"But that-that's completely arbitrary!"

"Or you could go in alone. It's your choice, Warden."

Shale followed as he stomped back down the ramp. Everyone began speaking at once, but Alistair cut them off.

"Leliana."

"Yes." She moved to stand beside him.

"Zevran?"

"If it is all the same to you, my friend, I would rather not spend my final days buried in some stinking tunnel."

"Fine. Sten?"

"No."

"I haven't even asked a question yet. Or is that just a 'no' on general principle?"

He almost smirked. "My injuries have healed. I swore to fight at your side, not stay behind and mind your dolls."

"I…" Alistair leaned close, voice dropping to a whispered hiss. "They're _not_ dolls. Figurines. Action figurines. And… well, they're coming in with me." He patted his pack.

Sten quirked a brow.

"Fine, fine. Yes, you can come. Shale?"

"I am to stand here, am I? A statue to be gawked at by passerby?" They were staring still. One dwarf had skidded to a stop, tripping over himself in his haste to get away as the golem growled.

"Will you behave?"

It snorted.

He looked to Wynne with a sigh. "Do you mind?"

"Perhaps I could use a rest. We will make camp nearby, should you need us."

Zevran slipped an arm though hers, steering her toward the clustered merchant stalls. "There could be worse fates, yes? Come, let us see if we can find you something more suited to this dreadful weather. I am thinking fur, something to accentuate your—"

She glanced over her shoulder with a smirk. "—Do not tarry, Alistair. If you do, I cannot be held responsible."

The elf chuckled. "You know, I have always wondered what it is like to be a toad. Particularly when it comes to…"

They passed mercifully out of earshot, leaving only Morrigan.

"And I?"

"What about you?"

Her eyes narrowed. "You will need my assistance."

"Oh, I doubt that. And sorry, all full up. You heard what the dwarf said."

The glare flickered to Leliana.

"Or how about this? I don't _want_ your help. In fact, I'm looking forward to having an entire _mountain_ between us. And if you happen to – I don't know – wander off into a blizzard while we're gone… well, _that_ would be immensely helpful."

She seemed to hesitate, lips pursing before turning and stalking off into the snow.

"Alistair…" Leliana lay a hand on his arm, but he was already making his way up the ramp. Once they passed the guards, her grip tightened forcing him to stop. "Alistair."

They stood in a long and high-ceilinged hall, the path lined with wide and imposing statues. Fascinating, really. Well, perhaps not as fascinating as he suddenly pretended they were…

"You are cruel to her."

"Yeah… well, she deserves it."

She folded her arms. "Sometimes that may be true, but you do not even give her a chance. She _is_ trying to help, in her way."

"And that doesn't seem suspicious to you?" He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Why are you defending her anyway?"

"Trust me, I am not. But it has been worse since the Dalish. What happened?"

"Nothing happened!"

Sten and Shale were watching them, some of the dwarves standing before the statues turning to gawk.

Flushing, he bent to Leliana's ear. "The… shapeshifting thing. I… saw it."

She pulled back to look at him, smirk twisting bemused.

"Oh, yes. The Swamp Witch does seem rather fond of losing her clothing." Shale loomed behind them now. "It feared that more than the darkspawn, I think. Oh, how It cowered!"

Leliana laughed.

"A sensible disdain for the fleshy bits, I thought. But then It simply _stared_. Disgusting."

Something flickered behind Leliana's eyes.

"Shale! Just… give us a moment?"

With a shrug, the golem stomped away.

"I…"

"It is… understandable. Morrigan is a beautiful woman."

"I didn't… I mean, she saved me and then fell on top of me and did the shifting thing and I…"

She quirked a brow at that.

Alistair pinched shut his eyes. It couldn't get any worse… and Maker only knew if Shale would… "She… she kissed me."

The silence stretched long. "She kissed you? While laying naked on top of you?"

"No! No, this was… before…" He winced, opening an eye slowly.

"And what did you do?" The whisper was flat, her expression unreadable.

"Maker's breath! I didn't _enjoy_ it. And I slapped her… well, I had slapped her. But I guess that's—"

"—You should not have hit her." She turned without another word, stalking away up the hall.

Alistair gaped after her, shaking himself as Sten appeared beside him. "That was unnecessary."

"What? I should have lied? Isn't that against your Qun or something?"

"There is a difference between lying and volunteering more than is required."

"Is that why you don't talk?" Alistair looked sideways at him. "And what would you know about it anyway? I can't picture you in a romance. With anyone."

Sten sighed.

Another set of doors loomed before them, opening onto the city proper. Alistair found his eyes roaming upward, the levels of stone-carved walkways ringing a great and glowing pit. So high it stretched, the entire mountain seeming hollow.

"…kinslaying traitor!"

"It is Harrowmont who is the traitor!"

A dwarf dashed in front of them, falling to his knees as another plunged his sword between his shoulder blades. Alistair stumbled back. The square before them was crowded, the dwarves all armed and heavily armored, seemingly fighting amongst each other. There were guards here too, but they seemed to be having little effect.

"These are my makers, then?" Shale snorted. "Charming."

One of the dwarves swept the legs from beneath another, swinging his maul to bring it down on his head in a crushing blow. The golem gave a surprised rumble of approval.

"What is going on here?"

The nearest guardsman turned, sparing them a distracted glance. "Great. Surfacers."

"I'm Alistair of the Grey Wardens. I have a treaty obliging—"

The guard spun, ducking beneath the sweep of a mace, gasping as a dagger pierced his belly instead.

"Oh yes. Let us just walk in and ask the dwarves for help. It's plans have always gone so well before. I am sure It has nothing to fear."

Alistair glared up at the golem as he drew his sword. But Shale was already moving, striding into the middle of the crowd to unleash a bellowing roar.

The dwarves stopped as one, blinking up in stunned silence. Only the guards seemed to recover, turning swift blows to knees and bellies as they herded to others away. "Go on, go!"

Alistair goggled. "You're not going to arrest them?"

The guard's eyes narrowed as he looked up at him. "Might as well arrest the whole city then. Bloody fanatics everywhere. You have my thanks for the interruption, surfacer, but this isn't exactly the best time to be visiting Orzammar."

"Why? What's going on?"

He sighed exasperated. "King Endrin has returned to the Stone, sick over the loss of two of his sons. The third, Bhelen, has laid claim to the throne, but some say that Endrin named Lord Harrowmont his successor. And until the Assembly breaks their deadlock and chooses one of them…" He gestured round as his men began dragging the bodies away.

"So this is dwarven politics?"

"At their finest. Though it's not much different on the surface, what I hear."

Alistair sighed. "But there are more important things. I have a treaty obliging Orzammar to assist against the Blight."

"A Blight. You're a Warden, then?"

He nodded.

"You might try the Assembly, though they don't have the authority that a king does. And I guarantee you we can't spare the troops until this gets settled."

"So what? We just have to wait? We don't have that kind of time!"

The guard shrugged. "Bhelen and Harrowmont are where the power lies. Whichever way it goes, you might do better talking to them."

"Right. You're sure the Assembly can't help?

"My mam's second cousin's husband is a deshyr." He leaned close, lowering his voice. "Trust me; they're all useless."

"So… this Bhelen is the king's son? That should make him king, right?"

The guard shrugged.

"Where can I find him?"

"You'll usually find his man Vartag somewhere near the Assembly chamber."

Alistair turned with a nod of thanks.

"And Warden? Whatever you can do to end this quickly, I suggest you do it."

They found their way easily enough, those they passed giving them a wide berth despite the whispers and wondering glares. Word must have spread, for soon not even the guards questioned them. He had always heard that Wardens were well-respected in Orzammar, but most of the outright gawking was directed at Shale. Still, it kept things quiet.

"You know, you are pretty useful to have around."

The golem snorted. "No doubt."

Pushing through the Assembly doors, they were immediately greeted by a broad and sneering man. "Warden. Vartag Gavorn. I represent Lord Bhelen."

"How did you know who I was?"

He smirked, looking pointedly at the others.

"Oh. Right."

"And you've got a golem. With an army of those, there's no telling what we could do."

Shale growled.

"I need Orzammar's help against the Blight. I'm told Lord Bhelen is the one to speak with."

Vartag nodded. "And Lord Bhelen would love to help you. But you'll understand that this is a delicate matter. Harrowmont has already sent assassins. How do I know what I can trust you?"

"Maker's breath! I don't _care_ who's king! The _Blight_ is what's important!"

The dwarf's eyes narrowed. "I'm afraid that's not enough to prove your loyalty."

"Prove my…? Fine. What do I have to do?"

"Just an errand. If you could just—"

"—An errand?" A thought occurred to him. "What about a gift?"

Vartag arched a doubtful brow. "It would have to be a bloody good gift."

"Like a golem?"

He grinned, eyes gleaming now. "Yeh? Well now, I think that just might do it."

* * *

"I will crush It. I swear that I will squish It's head between my hands and laugh as It fountains blood."

"And yet you haven't." Leaning close, Alistair lowered his voice, casting a wary eye toward Vartag as he led them through the palace. "Because you know I can't actually give you away. And I don't intend to."

Shale snorted. "It has a plan, then?"

"Not… well, not exactly. But we'll meet this Bhelen and then…"

It growled.

"See? Like I said, you're useful."

"I will remember this day when the birds come."

But as soon as they had entered the palace, Alistair had felt it again. It tingled still along his spine, the vague sense that he had been here before, that this was where he was supposed to be. This was the right choice. It had to be.

Vartag paused before a thick-carved door, ushering them inside. Crossing the threshold, Alistair stopped dead. The dwarf looked up from his desk, fixing them beneath a familiar smile.

"Alistair." Leliana had not spoken to him since the entry hall, but she stared up at him now with open concern. He felt her fingers curl over his, realized that his hand had gone to his sword. Slowly, he let her pull his hand away.

But Bhelen had noticed too, coming quick to his feet. "Listen to your woman, Warden. You beg an audience and then draw on me in my own house?"

"No, I… I didn't mean." His stomach twisted, the need to retch suddenly overwhelming. "Do I… know you from somewhere?"

"We all look alike to you, do we?" The dwarf snorted. "No matter, it's the same with you surfacers. But Vartag tells me you're in need of an army. Unfortunately, so long as the usurper Harrowmount continues to make his ridiculous claims, I don't have the authority to grant it to you."

Alistair swallowed hard. "What would it take?"

"Me on the throne."

"You… king…?"

"As I should be. I am an Aeducan, the king's only living son. So you support me and I support you. Do we have a deal, Warden?"

One by one their eyes turned to him, waiting for him to speak. Alistair took a step back. "No. No… we don't."

"What?"

"I-I'm sorry, I…" His fists balled at his sides, nails digging into his palms. "I have to…" Whirling, he pushed his way through the door.

Maker, what was _wrong_ with him? He didn't see the dwarf, the woman gasping as he crashed into her. And yet that glare was familiar, so familiar. The dwaven girl from the Fade.

He had been expecting it, really, ever since the forest. There had been two dwarves in his dream; it only made sense that he would see them here…

"What are you staring at?" She pulled away. He hadn't even realized that he had grabbed her arm.

"Alistair? What are you doing? Who is that woman?" Leliana and the others stood behind him, blinking in surprise.

"I… you can see her?"

The dwarf shook him off.

"Yes, I can see her."

Looking again, he saw the fear behind the woman's eyes. The features were softer, he realized, the hair red instead of brown, the brand on her cheek different than the one he had seen. But her face was the same, he would swear it. With a final, parting glare she ran off.

"Alistair." Leliana lay a hand on his arm. "Who was that?"

"I have no idea."


	24. Dust Town

"A sound victory. You have every tongue in Orzammar wagging." The old dwarf clasped his hands behind his back, falling into step beside Alistair as they made their way through the estate.

"Yes, well, Grey Wardens don't usually fight for sport."

"But you lived up to your legend. And you cannot tell me that you did not have at least a bit of fun." There was just a hint of a smile beneath his beard. "Your golem, in particular, looked to be enjoying itself."

"Yeah… it does that."

Lord Harrowmont chuckled.

Alistair found himself watching the dwarf from the corner of his eye. There was a sternness beneath his affable nature, tired and harried though it was. He was certainly a politician, but there was something comforting in his approach to the situation, a resigned if unrelenting sense of duty. Alistair had liked the man immediately, but had not let himself wonder any further at the reason.

"Yet most are still talking of your flight from Bhelen's palace."

He felt himself flushing. "He… bothered me."

Harrowmont laughed. "I won't deny that it was certainly in my favor for one of the illustrious Grey Wardens to come storming out of my opponent's home looking as though he'd choked on a nug. But you saw through to the truth of the matter. Bhelen cannot rule."

"And this carta…?"

"Have expanded their hold well beyond Dust Town. If you can put an end to their terror and do so in my name—"

"—Two birds, one stone."

Harrowmont gave him a strange look. "…Yes. But it would certainly solidify our position."

"Oh, right. You don't have birds here."

Shaking his head, the old dwarf smiled.

They had almost reached the entry hall where Leliana, Sten and Shale waited. Chancing to look down, Alistair spotted a stack of framed paintings leaning against the wall. He moved to them, pulling aside the wrappings before he could stop himself. "What are these?"

"Ah, a few things that I saved from the palace just before Endrin died. Before Bhelen could get his hands on them."

"You stole them?" Alistair stopped, his hand falling away. The dwarf in the painting stood proud and straight-backed, the sword held before him pointing toward the ground. Both the hilt and his armor were thick and intricate, gilded to match the reddish gold of his trailing beard. But there was something of a smile there, a knowing glint beneath his furrowed brow. "Who… who is this?"

Harrowmont stepped close, throwing the covering back over the frame. "That was Duran Aeducan, King Endrin's second son."

"The one who…?"

"When his elder brother Trian was murdered, he was the one accused, yes."

"But you think it was Bhelen."

"As do many others."

Alistair sighed, looking again to the painting. "How did he die?"

Harrowmont's eyes narrowed. "He was exiled to the Deep Roads, but this is not in itself a death sentence. Perhaps he found his way to the surface."

"I wouldn't count on it."

"What?"

His words had been mumbled, but still the old dwarf glared. The dwarf in the painting was eager, strong, a warrior, but once he had been a little boy, swinging his legs restlessly beneath a table. Remembered only in dreams. "Nothing, it's nothing."

They had reached the others now. Leliana still did not move to stand beside him, but gave him an small and encouraging smile.

Alistair turned to look down at the dwarf. "So we'll… deal with this carta."

He nodded.

Back on the street, they made their way to the market district. Dust Town would lie beyond, the city's lowest level, home to the poor and the criminals and the casteless. Not a nice place, from the way Harrowmont described it. Rounding a corner, Alistair stopped short.

"That's my da's shop! You can't do that here!"

"Eh?" The dwarf waved a distracted hand, shooing the child away. He stood facing a nearby wall, feet planted as he let a thick stream of urine trickle along the stone. "Ya know what I do to little boys that look at me funny?"

Screwing up his courage, the boy darted near, kicking the dwarf behind the knee.

He let out a howl as the child bolted, bracing a hand against the wall. "Bloody brat! Of all the soddin'…"

Leliana coughed, hiding a giggle behind her hand.

But the dwarf had righted himself, continuing about his business.

"Um. Excuse me…?

He turned. Alistair felt something splash against his boots.

"Heh. Sorry about that."

Pinching shut his eyes, he waited until he heard the dwarf tuck himself away.

"Hey! You're that Grey Warden, aren'tcha? One's been working for Lord Harrowmont."

Alistair nodded. He just wouldn't look down, wouldn't…. He looked down.

The dwarf chuckled. "I wouldn't worry about it; 's mostly ale anyway. Now. Did you want somethin'?"

"I… I'm looking for information on the carta."

"Eh? Don't know much about that. Thought your boss might be sniffing around again."

"Something tells me that sniffing around you would be a bad idea." He hadn't meant to say it aloud, stifled a groan as he bit his tongue.

But the dwarf let out a roaring laugh. "Ya got me there. But Dust Town's where you wanna be." He tottered away with a wave, stumbling back toward the tavern.

Leliana shook her head. "What an interesting little man."

"Bah. If the Sister finds the Drunken Dwarf's… _excretions_ interesting, she is more mad than I thought."

She looked up at Shale with a smirk.

"Come on, let's go."

The carved stone beneath their feet fell away beyond the market district, turning instead to jagged rock and hard-packed dirt. There were buildings here, crumbling and cramped mirrors of their cousins above, the once proud stonework lost beneath generations of filth.

"So this is where the poor people live."

Leliana frowned at him.

"Sorry."

The slums seemed to come alive as they passed, gaunt and shadowed faces appearing beneath lean-tos and slumping walls. All bore the marks of the casteless, the brands burned unmistakable. Even the children had them. Alistair wondered at what age they did it; he wondered if it hurt. The little dwarven girl in the Fade had been so very young.

He had asked after the dwarf in the palace, asked what a casteless had been doing there at all. Her name was Rica and she was a concubine to Prince Bhelen, but none had been able to tell him more than that. But she had come from here, this place, and so had the girl.

So lost in thought was he that he didn't see the blade, the dwarf slipping from beneath the shadow of a crumbling archway. Shale lifted the man with ease, narrowing its eyes as he squirmed. After a moment's pause it flung him aside, snorting as he slumped against a wall.

Again all eyes were on them, the moment stretching long.

"That's right. I've got a golem."

The faces disappeared.

"Hah." Alistair smiled.

"Yes, yes, very amusing."

Moving deeper into the ruins they came to a square. A woman sat leaning against a set of steps, whatever building they had led to long gone.

"Um… hello."

She looked up through narrowed eyes.

"I'm Alistair of the Grey Wardens."

Still she stared blankly.

"Oh. I'm sorry… are you…? You can't… speak?" He leaned toward Leliana. "I think she's a little…"

The dwarf snorted. "I can speak, Alistair of the Grey Wardens. But maybe I'm just not inclined to."

"What?"

Sten leaned over his shoulder. "She wants your coin. A bribe."

"Oh. Right." He fished into his belt for his purse.

Leliana put a hand on his arm, but it was too late. The dwarf's eyes had gone wide at the sight of the heavy pouch. With an exasperated sigh, she shook her head. "Allow me."

"Are you sure—?"

She crouched. "We are looking for information on the carta."

"The carta, eh? Now _that's_ gonna cost ya."

Leliana leaned closer, flicking her hair out of her face, letting the woman see the scars. As the dwarf recoiled, she smirked. "Five silvers, not a copper more."

"Twenty."

"Ten." She rocked easy on her heels, balance and coiled grace.

"Done." Glowering up at Alistair, the dwarf shook her head. "You want Jarvia. She and Beraht ran things round here. Or they did. Rumor is Jarvia killed him, blamed it on some poor duster."

Leliana pursed her lips sweetly. "And where can we find this Jarvia?"

"I… I don't know. There's a base round here somewhere, but its hidden." Her eyes flickered to Leliana. "I really don't know!"

"And I believe you." She straightened, reaching into Alistair's belt. Producing a sovereign, she tossed it to the woman.

"I thought you said ten silvers."

"And this will put food in her belly for far longer." With a shrug, she turned and walked away.

Alistair, though, wasn't following the others. He was looking across the square. The building was no different than the one beside it, crumbling and unmarked, but again he felt that… sinking sort of tingle. Hunger… perhaps anger… it was different than before, but he was beginning to understand why. It felt something like the taint now, unsettling but familiar enough to almost be relied upon. Right. Only the taint would eventually kill him… if this didn't drive him mad first.

"Another hunch."

He glanced up to see Sten standing beside him. "I don't know, maybe."

"Hm."

"Let me guess… you have a problem with that?"

"You and the mage speak of spirits. The priestess calls it the hand of your Maker. Either name is foolish."

Alistair shrugged. "What about fate?"

He remained silent for a long moment, shaking his head with a rumbling sigh. "'_Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit. Maraas shokra._'"*

"I don't suppose you're going to tell me what that means?"

"No."

"Right." With a nod for the others, Alistair pressed his hand against the door. It was unlocked.

"About soddin' time. I was starting to think I'd have to— Who're you?" The dwarf had been reclining with his feet on the table, the chair legs thudding against the floor as he leaned forward. He rose quick, a blade coming to either hand as he glared. "And surfacers."

Alistair grinned.

The dwarf scowled. "What? This is my house now." He shifted his blades, one hand scratching wonderingly at his plaited hair. "You lookin' for trouble?"

"Alistair." Leliana elbowed him.

"Oh. Right. We're looking for the carta."

"Yeah? Well, I'd say you found it." He chuckled as the others appeared, slipping from the house's inner room. All were armed, their leathers dusty, their scowls unflinching.

Behind him, Sten snorted. "Was this a part of your hunch?"

"Not exactly."

At a nod from the first, the others rushed them but the cramped space provided little room to maneuver. Leliana switched from bow to blades, Sten's sword rebounding off of the wall as it sent two of the dwarves sprawling. Alistair's own shield took the dwarf with the braids in the side of the head, one hand grabbing for Leliana's ankle as he fell. She stumbled but found her balance, bracing her boot against his chest as she pressed him back against the overturned table. The others had fallen still.

"Heh. Not bad for a human." He leered up at her, pursing his lips into a smirking kiss.

Alistair made sure to accidentally kick him in the shin as he crouched. "So. You want to tell me where the carta's base is?"

"And have Jarvia kill me? No thanks."

"Or I could just kill you now."

The dwarf stared up at him for a long moment. Wriggling his arm from beneath him, he reached into his pocket, flicking a small and carved piece of bone in Alistair's direction.

Leliana arched a brow. "You could move the whole time?"

His eyes roamed openly along the length of her leg. "Maybe I'm just enjoying the view."

"And what exactly do I do with this?" Alistair turned the thing round in his hands.

"It opens a suspicious door three houses down."

"How will I know it?"

"It's suspicious."

Alistair coughed.

The dwarf watched him as he stood, gaze flickering to Sten as he shifted his sword between his hands. He sighed. "Guess it's my turn now, isn't it?" There was something resigned, almost chuckling behind the words.

Looking down at him, Alistair shook his head. "What's your name?"

"Leske. Why?"

"Because we're going to leave now." He turned, pushing the nagging sensation away. "I suggest you do the same."

As the others slipped through the door, something caught his eye. There were pieces missing from the doorframe, the scratches in the stone neat and deliberate as one might mark the growth of a child. Someone had carved words here in a jagged and awkward hand. The tallest of the marks bore the name "Rica," the one just below it "Natia." Alistair smiled.

* * *

With a final grunt, Shale brought a thick fist down on the dwarf's helmet, snorting as he slumped amongst the others. The tunnels seemed endless, the crates and riches and murderous thugs more numerous still. They'd been set upon as soon as they slipped through the hidden door, making their way from one crowded room to the next. But the halls had been sloping upward for some time now. Alistair was by no means an expert on Orzammar geography, but they couldn't be anywhere near where they'd started.

Sten leaned now against a nearby wall, glaring down at the bodies. One among them was larger than the others… much, much larger.

"_Tal'Vashoth._" His eyes narrowed.

It was not the first Qunari they had seen, but he had said that they were nothing, less than nothing, those who had abandoned the Qun and sold their services to whoever would have them. He had said little else since they encountered the first, but somehow it had seemed to make him fight even harder.

He sagged now, his sigh heavy.

Alistair slumped beside him. "You okay?"

"I am fine."

"I kind of wish we had brought Wynne along."

Sten nodded his assent.

Leliana looked up from where she had crouched, resting hands on her knees to catch her breath.

But Shale only snorted, fixing them all beneath a smirking glare. "I need no healing." It flexed an arm for effect, eyes widening as one of its crystals cracked loose and toppled to the floor. "Pigeon crap."

"Well, it can't be much further… can it?"

Leliana straightened, offering him an arm with a bemused smile. She was warm, her cheeks flushed even beneath the blood and filth. He had only just begun to notice the change, her new preference for blades over her bow, the eager flash of her eyes whenever the fighting thickened. And yet he couldn't remember ever seeing her look more beautiful.

He found himself grinning. "You're good?"

She nodded.

The hall ended ahead, the narrow door thick and carved. It was just like all the others that they had passed, but this one blocked the way entire. Alistair stopped. "This is it."

They didn't even question him anymore. He had just seemed to know the way.

"Ready?"

"No." Still Shale fiddled with the broken crystal, trying to fit it back amongst the others. Giving up, it sighed. "Yes, yes, fine."

Alistair pushed aside the door.

"There. What'd I tell you?"

The room was wider than the others, about a dozen dwarves fixing them with matching glares. The two standing in the center were grinning, the woman's smirk openly appraising as her eyes roamed over him.

But it was the dwarf beside her that set Alistair's teeth on edge. "I thought I told you to leave."

"What's a Grey Warden mean around here?" Leske shrugged. "I know who's in charge."

Somehow Alistair got the impression that he was more surprised than he should be. "Jarvia."

The woman inclined her head.

"Except for – you know – the whole dead carta thing."

She sneered. "And you will pay for their deaths a hundred times over." At her wave, the others started forward. "Kill them all! But leave the pretty one for me."

"Aw, she thinks I'm pretty." Dashing down the steps, Alistair unsheathed his blade. Maybe something of Leliana's excitement had affected him, but he suddenly felt the tiredness fading away, the surge of the moment carrying him forward.

She moved beside him, watching him curiously before ducking beneath a crossbow bolt. Two dwarves fired from the stairs at the room's rear and it was to these that she made her way, eyes narrowing as her grin returned.

If these dwarves were at all surprised at the presence of a golem, they did their best not to show it. Leske may have warned them but they surrounded Shale with only a hint of hesitation. Sten was at the golem's side, sword swinging wide.

It was to Jarvia that Alistair made his way. Jarvia was his. She drew her blades as he approached, laughing as he was forced to lunge quickly aside. Harrowmont had told him of her crimes, he had seen the fearful looks on the faces of the shopkeepers, heard the stories of how she had killed even her lover but this… this was something more. He _wanted_ to kill her.

Alistair stopped short.

He gasped before he truly felt the sting, the blade sinking deep into the meat of his thigh. Staggering, his jaw clenched, eyes rising slowly. Leske.

He shoved the dwarf aside, throwing him into Sten's path, barely seeing as the big man's blade struck home. Now, now he was seeing something else.

Again the girl wrapped her arms round his leg, smiling up at him. Just as she had in the Fade. Maker, but this hurt. Alistair's fingers fluttered hesitant round the dagger's hilt, round the wound, but the girl seemed to take no notice. She only hugged him tighter, clinging, protective.

"I would leave that in, if I were you. Keeps it from bleeding. On second thought…" Grinning down at him, Jarvia jerked the blade free.

Alistair screamed, sinking to his knees. But still the dwarven girl stood beside him, folding her arms with a defiant glare. She had changed and somehow not, taller now, older but still the same.

"Right, right, I'm on it." He groped for his fallen sword.

Jarvia smirked, kicking it away.

Maker… The rest of the room had fallen silent, but he couldn't tell if the others were still… if they were even… Jarvia leaned low, fingers tangling in his hair to jerk his head up as she tsked. "Such a waste, really. And to think that you managed to—"

She staggered against him, falling awkwardly into his arms. The blade had slipped quick cross her throat, her glare flickering disbelieving as she blinked up at him. Sneering still, she spat in his face. Alistair let her fall.

Leliana crouched before him, wiping her dagger clean against Jarvia's breeches. Beside him, Alistair imagined he heard a whispered chuckle.

"Oh, I like her."

"Great… so glad to have… your approval…"

The world went dark.


	25. Into the Deeps

"Look, I'm fine. Really." Bracing his hands against the arms of the chair, Alistair pushed himself to his feet.

The others stared at him doubtfully… well, except for Shale. The golem still appeared to be bitter about having to carry him from the carta tunnels, complaining loudly to all the market district about how frail and weak he was. It really did wonders for a man's self esteem.

Shaking off Leliana's hand, he stood, hiding a wince. "See? I'm good."

They had had plenty of potions and salves, of course, and Harrowmont had summoned Orzammar's best healers. He had been poked and prodded, the poison drawn away, but dwarves didn't practice magic, were immune to it. And despite Harrowmont's messengers, the guards at the door had refused to admit Wynne. He would have to go to her.

He took a few hesitant steps, nodding to himself as they grew easier. Turning to Harrowmont, he smiled. "Thank you for the help. I have to go… see about a few things. But with Jarvia gone… I mean, how does this work exactly? Are you king now?"

The old dwarf chuckled, but it fell to a sigh as he stroked his beard. "It was no small thing that you did, but I am afraid it is not enough."

Alistair quirked a brow.

"But there is something… something that would erase all doubt in the minds of the Assembly."

"Right. Why do I get the feeling I'm not going to like this?"

Harrowmont shook his head. "The endorsement of a Paragon would be beyond question. And I have received word that Bhelen is also looking for her."

"Looking for who?"

"The Paragon Branka, Orzammar's only living paragon. She disappeared into the Deep Roads two years ago. Took her entire house… except for that slobbering drunkard of a husband."

"The Deep Roads."

He nodded.

"Maker's breath, _why_?"

"She was searching for something. Riches, perhaps the lost thaigs; no one is sure."

Alistair sighed. "And you want us to… go into the Deep Roads after her?"

"You are a Grey Warden, are you not?"

"Yes, but… but we don't really do that until we're… Oh, nevermind."

"If anyone can find her, it is a Grey Warden. It is you."

Of course it was. It was always him. He leaned a hand against the wall. "And if we find this… Branka? If she's even still alive?"

"Convince her to return with you. Convince her to support my claim."

"That's an awful lot of convincing."

Harrowmont smiled. "And yet I have heard great tales of your accomplishments on the surface, the lengths to which you have gone to rally others to your cause. In this, you will earn the might of the dwarves."

"Right." He shot Leliana a suspicious glare.

She pursed her lips with an innocent shrug.

"Okay. The Deeps Roads." Alistair shook himself. "But I do have to see to a few things first." He gestured to his leg.

Harrowmont nodded. "Of course."

Leliana slipped an arm through his as they made their way out to the street. He was grateful for the support but watched her a long moment before speaking, noting the way she smiled even as she avoided his eyes.

"So do you forgive me?"

"I have already forgiven you." She laughed. "It would be hypocritical of me not to, no?"

"I suppose I should be thanking the Maker, then? Thanking those Sisters back in Lothering for the fact that I still have all my limbs?"

"Thanking the Maker is always a good idea." She looked at him sideways, holding his eye. "I am glad you are alright."

"Or I will be. I never thought I'd miss Wynne's healing. It's creepy. And it itches!" He chuckled. "But thank you. For the forgiveness."

"You are welcome."

"I mean I _was_ savagely attacked. It was horrible! You can't possibly hold it against me. Morrigan just, just—"

Leliana arched a brow. "'Savage,' was it?"

His cheeks flamed. "I'm just going to… stop… talking…"

She giggled.

"Hey! You! You're that Grey Warden." Alistair turned to find a familiar dwarf stumbling toward them.

"Yeah. We've met."

He paused to catch his breath, blinking up at them from beneath heavy brows. "Eh? Have we?"

"You peed on my shoes."

"Heh. No, I didn't. Least I don't remember."

"Right. Of course not."

"But you…" The dwarf waggled a finger, teetering as he swallowed a belch. "You're going into the Deep Roads."

Alistair goggled. "How could you possibly know that?"

"Heh. They're all after her, always have been. That nug-lover Harrowmont's sendin' you after Branka."

"Ohhh. _You're_ the slobbering drunkard."

The dwarf puffed out his chest with a grin. "Heard of me, huh?"

"You're her husband."

He scowled at that.

"If you don't mind me asking… I mean, paragons are really… revered, right?"

"You're wondering what a bloody paragon was doin' with a useless sod like me, right?" He snorted beneath his whiskers. "Name's Oghren, by the way. Time was that meant something round here. Fightin' and drinkin' mostly, but the _respected_ kind. And that's why you're taking me with you."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Can still swing a sword better'n most. And been waiting years for someone willing to go after her."

Leliana smiled. "Oh, how romantic. Of course we will help you rescue your wife."

"Rescue?" He chortled. "You got a soft spot for darkspawn? Trapped down there with that horrible, soddin' woman. Surprised she ain't driven 'em all out by now." He shook his head. "Thought she got the last word, she did. But I'll show her. Nobody walks out on Oghren!"

Leliana took a step back.

"Well, we haven't exactly been picky before." Looking down at him, Alistair sighed. "You said something about a sword?"

"I'm Warrior Caste, boy, what didja think?" His eyes darted away. "I just… can't carry one within city limits. Not anymore."

"I really don't want to know do I?"

Oghren grinned. "Nahh…"

* * *

Leaning still against Leliana, Alistair led them back through the hall of statues and out to the gates. Maker, but it was bright up here.

Oghren mirrored him as he shielded his eyes, lingering just within the doors. "I'll wait here."

"You sure?"

Scowling upward, he growled beneath his breath.

"Right. Won't be long."

They found the others camped just beyond the merchant stalls. All three were sitting in something of an awkward circle, Zevran idly spinning one of his daggers between his fingers.

"Normally there are any number of things that I would do at the behest of a beautiful woman, but this I am afraid…"

Morrigan leaned close. "If you prefer, I could stab you in the face."

"Mmm… intriguing."

She grabbed the dagger from him, slashing quick across his palm.

He hissed, smiling as it faded into a chuckle. "Ahh, I see."

"Shut up."

"She's right." Wynne shook her head. "She must concentrate. Stay still."

"Or perhaps you simply do not wish to hear me speak?"

Wynne smirked.

With a doubtful scowl Morrigan took Zevran's hand in hers, avoiding his attempts to catch her eye as she concentrated on the wound. After a moment he subsided, behaving himself, watching curiously as her eyes narrowed.

"It itches."

"Shut. Up."

Alistair couldn't quite see, but after a long moment Morrigan sat back, looking honestly surprised.

Zevran flexed his fingers, his palm whole and unmarked. "Marvelous!"

Wynne only nodded.

"Wow. A spell that isn't entirely disgusting."

Morrigan started at their approach, fixing Alistair beneath a withering glare.

With some difficulty, he bent beside Wynne. "Now if you can teach her to be – I don't know – a _nice person_… _then_ I'll be impressed."

The old mage ignored him, face falling in concern. "You are injured."

"Yes, but it's just a—"

"Let me see." Turning to kneel before him, she prodded his thigh, hands moving to his belt as he hissed.

"Oh! Hey! Hands! Hands in new places!"

"I must see the wound."

"Yeah, but…" He could feel himself flushing as his eyes darted to the others.

Wynne sighed, nodding toward the nearby trees. "Fine. If you must."

Still he shook his head.

"Oh, stop being such a child. It is nothing I have not seen before."

"I would really rather you hadn't said that."

She smirked. "I wasn't always an old woman, you know."

"Lalala, not listening..."

Wynne grabbed him by the arm, steering him forcibly toward the trees. "Morrigan, come along."

"What? No!" He struggled, but found himself sagging under her glare.

Once out of sight of the others, Wynne folded her arms, nodding impatiently toward his breeches.

"Can't you just—?"

Morrigan came trudging though the snow. "And why must _I_ be present?"

"You need to practice on a larger wound."

"I'd rather not be _practiced on_ at all, really."

Great. They were both scowling at him now. After a long moment, Alistair unclasped his belt, pushing the pants down around his ankles.

Wynne crouched. "A blade, was it? And poisoned?"

"Yeah."

"Good."

"Oh, yes. It felt wonderful."

"Hush." She glanced over her shoulder. "Morrigan."

With a sigh, the younger woman knelt beside her. "At least you have a reminder, should you forget your name."

Alistair flushed. "They-they made us stitch our names on in the Chantry. We kept getting our underthings mixed up. And why are you _reading that_ anyway?"

She looked up at him with a smirk.

He swallowed hard. Breathing deep, he fixed his eyes ahead. He wouldn't look down, wouldn't see her staring up at him from beneath those brows… kneeling there… leaning close… When he felt the first touch, he screamed.

Wynne pulled her hand away. "We haven't started yet."

"Right… um. I knew that."

Of all things, she stood, moving back and leaving him alone with Morrigan. "Go ahead. The same as before."

For a moment she looked almost as uncomfortable as he, eyes flickering to his as she glowered.

Again Alistair squared his shoulders, staring off into the trees. "I hate you. So much."

The others glanced up in surprise as he came scrambling back through the snow, struggling to tug his breeches back up around his waist. Stumbling, he caught himself, whirling back toward the mages with a glare. "That burns! And itches! It itches _a lot_!"

Zevran arched a brow. "You scream like a woman, my friend."

"You would too if she… if she…" He jabbed a finger in Morrigan's direction.

"Oh, I do not think so."

She folded her arms. "'Tis healed. Stop acting like a child."

"I—" Slipping a hesitant hand into his breeches, Alistair probed at the wound. It was healed, the skin whole. Right. He fastened his belt with a sigh. "We're going into the Deep Roads."

Wynne tilted her head, Morrigan's eyes going wide.

Zevran only chuckled. "A journey to the deeps, is it? Generally, that is not an idea one simply springs upon the unsuspecting. It requires persuasion… romancing."

"Zev. Not in the mood."

He shrugged.

"There's a dwarf we have to find… Someone who can settle the whole king… thing."

"Then that is where we will go." Wynne bent to their things, shouldering her pack. The others seemed to follow her lead, moving up the ramp without protest.

The dwarf on the door, though, stopped them short. "And where do you think they're going?"

"The Deep Roads."

His brow twitched at that, but he shook his head. "Gabrin said three and I'll honor it, but no more than that. We don't need any more trouble from surfacers."

"Oh _come on_! It's the Deep Roads!"

Folding his arms, the guard glared. "And you've caused plenty of trouble already doing Harrowmont's dirty work. Who knows what he'd want with so many of you."

"Great. I take it you support Bhelen, then?"

The dwarf sneered.

"Oh come off it, Korm." Leaning inside the door, Oghren shook his head. "Just 'cause your father got you into the Guard instead of fightin' with the real men—"

"—Taking responsibility for Oghren, are you? Make it two."

"Hey!"

Shale was the first to move behind him. "I should like to see these… Deep Roads. And It would certainly not survive without me."

Turning to the others, Alistair sighed.

"Next time you are going to leave us behind, let us pick somewhere warmer, yes?" Zevran lopped back down the ramp with a shrug.

Sten shook his head. "You will need a healer."

"I don't need to—"

He bent to punch Alistair in the leg, lips twitching as he winced.

"Point… taken. Wynne?"

But it was Leliana who spoke. "They say the Deep Roads stretch endless, miles and miles, wider than all the countries above. You may be asking us to walk the length of the world."

Wynne folded her arms. "While I resent the implication, I cannot entirely disagree with your point."

Leliana raised her eyes to Alistair's. "Take Morrigan."

"You can't be serious."

Morrigan snorted. "I am standing right here."

He ignored her, stepping closer to Leliana.

She managed a small smile. "We will be waiting here when you return."

Leaning low, Alistair stroked a hand along her cheek, raising her face to his.

She hesitated. "What about—?"

"—Don't care." He pulled her to him, the kiss long and deep and lingering. He was going into the Deep Roads after all and he would take as long as he bloody well pleased.

Behind him, Morrigan sighed. "And again I may vomit."

"I think I will join you."

Arms wrapped still around Leliana, Alistair craned his neck to look at Shale. "Ooh! Golem vomit? Really?"

"No."

* * *

As the doors slammed shut behind them, Alistair winced. Even the guards at the entrance to the Deep Roads – hardened dwarves who had lived with the darkspawn threat all their lives – had looked at him with something like pity. But he was a Grey Warden, had the pass that Harrowmont had given him. Pity or no, they didn't hesitate to seal them in.

He just… hadn't thought he would end up here so soon. Just before Ostagar Duncan had said that he was having the dreams again, that he was thinking about…

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw Morrigan watching him. Alistair scowled.

"So this… anvil?"

Oghren squinted up at him. "_The_ Anvil. Anvil of the Void."

"It was used to make golems?"

"Aye. It was lost to the Deeps with everything else. Caridin – the one who made it – was a smith and a paragon, forged the first golems himself. Probably why Branka was so obsessed. But if anyone could find it, it'd be her." He seemed to think a moment, looking up at Shale with a quiet chuckle. "Guess ya might say welcome home."

"Home." It tasted the word, lingering behind as the others started forward. With a rumbling sigh, it followed.

Alistair let himself drop back, falling into step beside the golem. "What do you remember? I mean, before the thirty years of voyeurism."

Shale growled. "I remember the mage and his insufferable hag of a wife. Did I tell you that she had me filed down? _Me_! I used to be ten feet tall!"

"Right. So you killed him. What about before that?"

"I… do not remember. The mage always bragged that he had found me in the Deep Roads, in an abandoned thaig."

Alistair blinked. "What was he doing in the Deep Roads?"

"Bah. 'Treasure hunting,' he called it."

"The dwarves probably didn't see it that way."

"No doubt." It remained silent for a long while. "I remember… darkness. A long darkness. In such a place as this, how long could even I remain staring at nothing? Was I asleep? Was I even aware? I do not know."

"Well, at least there weren't any birds."

Shale looked at him sideways, lips twisting into something of a smile.

They had come to a fork in the path, one side turning to run through a crack in the wall. It was broken but well trampled, the accidental stonefall smoothed beneath years of use. "Darkspawn?"

Oghren shook his head. "They ain't been sighted this close to the city in years. It's just a back entrance to a thaig. Aeducan, if I had to guess."

Hesitating only a moment, Alistair made his way down the path.

"Hey! Stick to the road!"

The others followed, but he hadn't gone far. A low dais rose in the center of the open room, his head tilting as he looked to it. Crouching, Alistair ran his hand through the thin layer of dust, the stains beneath it faint now. Rubbing his fingers together, he watched the old blood flake away.

"You sure there aren't any darkspawn?"

Oghren snorted. "How should I know? But we're lookin' for Branka, not some dead king's bones."

Alistair straightened. They could rest here, hide here, mourn here, but it suddenly seemed a cowardly thing. Everything that truly mattered, any chance they had, would lie ahead. He realized then that the thoughts were not his own. Someone else had paused here before, the shallow trail of their fingers in the dust running just beside his own.

"Right. Fine. Let's go."


	26. The Deep Roads

"'…tell Oghren… No, what I have to say should be for his ears alone. This is my farewell.'"

"Heh. Guess Branka was thinkin' about me after all, the old softie."

Alistair stood, looking down at the abandoned journal. It seemed to have been left waiting, open to the last page on a low stone table, as if in the hopes that someone would follow. Someone who didn't mind walking endless miles in the dark and battling darkspawn, that is. Most recently it had been spiders. Maker, but he hated spiders.

"It sounds like she went into these… Dead Trenches?"

Oghren nodded. "Never had any fear, that woman. 'Cept maybe of my feet. Heh. Guess I do miss her." He sighed, punctuating it with a rumbling belch.

"Touching." Morrigan sneered.

The dwarf turned to look up at her. "You ever been married?"

"I can assure you, I have not."

"Well, it ain't all about kisses and poetry and all that other stuff you women like so much. A little bit of _hate_. Now, _that's_ what keeps a relationship interesting." His gaze shifted to Alistair with a knowing wink. "'Specially when it comes to ruttin'."

"You truly are a disgusting creature."

His eyes roamed over her, leering openly now. "Just sayin', boy. Wouldn't waste the opportunity if I were you."

Morrigan stiffened, folding her arms as she glared. "And what opportunity might that be?"

"So. Right. The Dead Trenches." Suddenly they didn't sound so bad. Alistair forced a chuckle as he peered into the darkened tunnel ahead.

"We ain't gonna stop for the night?"

Glancing back at Oghren, he quirked a brow. Alistair had lost track of the days long ago, but the dwarf had always seemed to know when to call a halt. "For the… night? How do you even know what time it is anyway?"

"Stone sense." He tapped the side of his head with a grin. "Where's the fun in relying on that big… glowing…."

Morrigan's smirk turned wicked. "…Searing, burning, always overhead. 'Tis almost as though it were watching you, so high up in that big, open—"

"—Stone, woman! You can keep your sky, and your sun too. But if we're not gonna sleep let's just get this over with."

Alistair shook his head. "It has to be safer than something called the Dead Trenches, right?" He glanced round. The spiders still lay scattered, the roof and walls draped with their cocoons and faintly-glowing webbing. "At least Morrigan will be comfortable."

She shot him a glare as she stalked off to a shadowed corner.

Nodding to Oghren, he watched her go. "See? Told you she was mean."

"Heh. Ain't nothin' like it, you mark my words." He elbowed him in the ribs before wandering off to find a spot of his own.

* * *

Resting elbows on his knees, Alistair counted backwards from the highest number he could think of. This usually worked; he could count pretty high. But maybe he didn't want to fall asleep, not here, not now. Sitting beneath the strange glow of the webs, he hugged his knees to his chest.

It was almost as though being beneath the ground, this close to the darkspawn strength made the pull even stronger. That was what the taint was, a sort of eavesdropping on the archdemon's call to the horde. But it could use it to find him too, he was certain of that now. Maybe there was nothing benevolent watching him tonight. Maybe Wynne had been wrong.

Maker, he wished Duncan were here. He wished he weren't the last. Barely six months he had been a Warden before Ostagar, but it was the closest thing to… it was the only family he had ever known. And when Duncan had spoken of the dreams, had spoken of going into the Deep Roads, Alistair had known that he would follow. Duncan would not have allowed it, of course, but he had not been ready to lose him even then.

But he had never gotten the chance. Alistair was here alone.

He heard the scuffle in the shadows, reaching slowly for his sword. Maybe this, at last, would be the end. Maybe they would make it quick.

It was only Morrigan.

Her gaze hardened, lips pressing together as she watched him sag, but if she noticed his disappointment she made no comment. After a moment's hesitation, she moved to sit beside him him, resting her staff across her lap.

Alistair looked at her sideways. "What are you doing?"

"Be silent."

They remained that way for some time, staring ahead into the faintly flickering glow. Of all the people to be stuck here with… Alistair sighed.

"Brooding does little for your cause."

"Does it? And here I thought it was all part of my mystique."

She snorted. "I do not see why you fear it so. Your Grey Wardens have traveled here before."

"Yes, but _I_ haven't." He paused. "It's… an arrangement. The dwarves respect us for it."

"'Tis a new experience for you, is it?"

"What?"

"Respect. Especially when it has yet to be earned."

"Ooh, very funny." Alistair sat back, watching her from the corner of his eye. Still she seemed to be staring into the shadows, even the bite behind her words hushed, distracted. So silent it was, the deep cool stirring the webs to cast strange patterns on the walls. He might have imagined it but even _Morrigan_ looked… unsettled.

After a time she seemed to shake herself, as if having reached the end of some unspoken debate. The light played strange across her features as she turned to face him.

But Alistair spoke first. "We only come here when we're dying, when we know that it's the end. The taint… it's a death sentence. You know, if we don't get flattened by an ogre or something first. Either way, Grey Wardens don't exactly have to worry about dying of old age."

Morrigan sat back, watching him through narrowed eyes.

"And so we come here to fight the darkspawn. When we have nowhere else to go."

"A noble enough effort, if a futile one."

Alistair looked to his hands. Maker, why was he talking? Why was he talking _to her_? "Duncan… he-he was leaving soon, coming here. He said his time was coming, but he never… never got the chance to…"

"Perhaps he merely got what he deserved."

Alistair's head snapped up. "_What?_"

Morrigan held up a warding hand. "He chose a better death. From what little you have spoken of him, I would guess it was the death he wanted. It was not meaningless, not hopeless, not found wandering in the endless dark. He stood beside his king and faced his enemy. He died for a reason."

Alistair felt his jaw go slack. Slowly, he shook his head. "…Thank you."

She sniffed, turning her face away.

"You didn't have to… But I think… I think you might be right." He slid closer. "Thank you."

"You mistake reason for sentiment."

"Oh, right. Couldn't have that. Couldn't say something _nice_ about somebody."

"The man is dead." Spinning to face him, she sneered. "Speaking good or ill of him does not change the fact. Nor does crying in the dark."

Right. So much for that. "You're not human."

Her scowl hardened.

"No, I mean it. You-you're just… cold and hard and _evil_. And just _look_ at you. Oghren's right, you've got all the right parts in the right places, but you're just… _stiff_ and I'm pretty sure you _can't_ smile and even-even your hair is just tight and severe and stupid – oh and did I mention you're _evil_?"

Something flickered behind her eyes, but they lit on his cheek, on the wound there. She sighed. Grabbing him roughly by the chin, she turned his head away, tracing a finger over the cut beneath his temple. "Stay still."

"No." He tried to scoot away. "Don't—"

"—Despite your apparent fascination, scars are not considered beautiful."

"I hate you. So much." He stiffened as the itch flamed behind his skin, spreading as the cut began to knit itself.

"There." Morrigan watched as it faded, hand still cupping his chin. It was her breath that he was feeling, he realized, hot against his cheek.

Alistair moved quick, hand snaking behind her to tug the twisted pin from her hair. She gasped as it tumbled free round her shoulders, pulling quickly away.

Tossing the pin into her lap, he sat back to admire the effect. It was actually… sort of… pretty. The way the dark waves framed her face, caught the light… but this was Morrigan. _Morrigan_. He smirked. "What do you know. You almost look like a person."

Her eyes narrowed. Coming quickly to her feet, she smacked the end of her staff hard against his knee as she stalked off into the dark.

* * *

"So are there many dwarves in the Deep Roads? I mean normally?"

"Eh?" Oghren glanced up at him as they paused. "Patrols mostly… and the Legion of the Dead, of course."

"Legion of the Dead?"

"Most think they're one nug short of a picnic, but you won't find a better buncha warriors when it comes to fightin' darkspawn. Give up everything… families, castes, lives to come down here and hold the line."

"But what about… others? How long could someone survive down here? Alone?"

"You mean like a treasure hunter or an exile?" He shook his head. "Sometimes people get lost. Sometimes someone commits a crime so big that the Assembly casts them into the Deeps with nothin'. But no one ever comes back from that."

"Right." Alistair's eyes strayed up the path. "So you don't… see him, then?"

Oghren blinked, following his gaze. "You ain't been eating anything you found down here, have ya?"

"No." The dwarf ahead had his back to them, but Alistair recognized his armor, the long and reddish golden hair. He had felt it more than once during these long and blurring days, a vague sense of having walked these paths before, of knowing that he must go on. He looked sideways at Oghren, saw his brows lower in concern. Alistair chuckled.

The room ahead opened onto a wide cliff, overlooking the jagged trench below. There was light here, flickering on the distant and crumbling bridge, casting shadows on the face of the strange dwarf as Alistair crouched beside him. Peering over the edge, he felt himself reel. Torches wavered, endless hundreds of them, their glow red and wicked above the clash of armor and cry of upraised steel. Darkspawn. More than he had ever seen, ever imagined.

The dwarf crouched beside him, pointing away down the line.

Something was rallying the horde, skimming low above them, twisting on the air as it flew higher. It didn't seem to see them, its wings sending up a spray of stone as it flew past to perch upon the bridge. Nightmare made flesh.

Leaning low, the archdemon roared.

Alistair opened his mouth to speak, but the dwarf was gone now. He was alone.

He backed quickly away from the cliff, scooting back on his heels but the archdemon was moving again, diving to disappear back into the trench. It was Morrigan who knelt beside him now.

Behind them, he could hear Oghren wheeze. "Now that, _that_ I did see. Wish I hadn't, though."

"It will be… difficult to crush." Shale sighed. "It's cause does seem rather hopeless. Most likely It and It's companions will end up no more than a series of colorful smears on the ground."

Morrigan glared up at the golem. "And in that event, you shall be dust beside us."

"Perhaps."

Oghren bent to help Alistair to his feet. But he stepped past him, moving toward the bridge. It was the only way across, but crumbling and broken and obviously unsafe. Still the darkspawn roared below, the stone rumbling beneath him as he slid a hesitant boot out onto the stone. Raising his eyes, Alistair again saw the dwarf, waiting now at the other side. Meeting his gaze, it smiled.

"Yes, fine. I'm coming."

* * *

"Then she does feast, as she's become the beast."

Alistair stopped. "Okay. This has gone well beyond creepy."

Morrigan passed him up with a snort, pushing aside the next door.

"I'm just saying, is this really the sort of voice that we want to be walking _toward_?"

The… spirit or whatever it was had disappeared after the bridge. From there the path had seemed obvious, the rooms blocked and roads broken until they found themselves again in another narrow and twisting tunnel. When he had first heard the voice he had not mentioned it, had assumed that the others would not hear it. But whatever his apparent madness it had never been this… ominous.

"I still can't put my finger on it, but it's – heh – it's familiar somehow." Oghren shook his head.

"It's talking about _eating_ people! I-I think we should turn around."

Three sets of eyes narrowed.

"Alright, yes. But just know that this is a bad idea."

Soon enough the tunnel opened into a crumbling room, the walls covered in a thick and decidedly _living_ looking… Actually, he'd rather not take a closer look. Alistair kept his eyes ahead.

So intent was he on not looking that he stumbled against the crouching dwarf, stifling a scream behind his hand. The woman rose slow, one shoulder sagging with the effort, head tilting wonderingly as she looked up at him.

"What's this?" The voice was the same, but no less creepy coming from a face like that. Parts of her skin seemed to have melted away, the bone smooth and pale beneath. Her eyes, too, were glazed, unseeing as she blinked.

"Hespith?" Oghren took a step forward. "Stone and ash, I know her. She came down here with Branka."

"Branka." The woman hissed, twitching away as if burned. "Do not speak to me of Branka, of what she did. I was hers, her captain and her lover… and I could not stop her."

Oghren stopped. "Her _what_?"

"Branka…"

"Wait just a… say that last part again."

Alistair had traveled with the dwarf long enough now, had seen him fight enough to read the color boiling behind his cheeks. He lay a hand on his shoulder, tightening his grip as Oghren struggled. "She's obviously – you know – mad."

After a moment, he seemed to subside. "Heh. Well, if I had known Branka had _those_ interests…"

Morrigan sniffed. "Charming. You were apparently such a catch that she turned from men entirely."

"Hey!"

Alistair let him go, not bothering to turn round even when he heard Oghren draw his axe.

"Do not make me test that dwarven resistance of yours."

"Oh yeah? I'd like to see you try!"

Even the thought of Morrigan meeting her end at the hands of an angry, drunken dwarf barely brought a smile to his face. Hespith had already fled, sparing him one last expressionless glare before disappearing round the bend.

* * *

"So let me get this straight… Branka _let_ her people get turned into those-those things?" Alistair shuddered. Of all the darkspawn they had seen, only the archdemon was… Again he shook himself, trying to push the memory away. "Broodmother" Hespith had called it.

"Nah, not her. Not Branka."

Morrigan shook her head. "You heard with the creature said."

"Not the Branka I knew. Mad as a nug sometimes, sure, but she couldn't, she wouldn't—"

"—Would not what, Oghren? You never did understand." There was a bite behind the words, sure and strong and unflinching. The dwarf stood on the ledge above them, scowling down with folded arms.

"Branka! By the Stone, you're alive!"

Alistair craned his neck to look up at the woman. There was no excitement there, no relief. Looking again to Oghren, he flinched.

"I am alive because I have done what I must. And I am close, so close!" Her eyes narrowed. "But what are you doing here? I assumed it was only a matter of time, but…"

"I'm here to bring you back."

Her laugh was cold, almost cruel. "I never figured you for the pining type." She turned away. "Go home, Oghren. Find a few whores. You're of no use to me."

Alistair couldn't bring himself to look long at the other man's expression. Instead, he stepped forward. "Then what _do_ you need?"

Branka turned. "I assume I should be asking you the same. You're obviously not here to help Oghren, but on some business of your own."

"I… I'm a Grey Warden. I seek allies against the Blight."

She tsked. "The Blight is a surface problem. Let them deal with it."

Oghren had pulled a flask from his hip, taking a long pull. Looking between them, Alistair felt the anger catch in his throat. "I need Orzammar's help. But without a king—"

"—So Endrin is finally dead? And some lord or another seeks my approval, is that it?"

"Yes."

"I have no interest in politics."

"Then what is it you're interested in? Not the Anvil, since you obviously haven't found it." He shrugged, feigning indifference. "Maybe it's not even real."

"It _is_ real!" She was kneeling now, hands clenching against the rock as she glared down at him. "But I cannot reach it. Not alone."

"Then perhaps 'twas a bad idea to kill your entire house."

Alistair turned. He was almost grateful for the support, but Morrigan caught his eye and looked quickly away.

"A necessary sacrifice." Branka straightened, shaking her head. "But your order is renowned for its cleverness as well as its strength, is it not? If you would be willing to make the attempt, Grey Warden, I will support whoever you please."

"An attempt… at what?"

Branka grinned.

* * *

Another gauntlet. At least he had some experience at this. But nothing had prepared him for the sight as he pushed aside the final door. The cavern stretched enormous, every surface seeming to glitter with snaking lines of lyrium. Ranging around him the others turned, blinking in wonder. Away across the expanse the stone rose into steps carved before a massive slab.

Shale stopped, wide eyed and expressionless, but it was not to the Anvil that it looked.

There were golems here, many golems, and one of them was moving forward. "I am Caridin, smith and paragon. It was I who created the Anvil of the Void, I who forged the first golems." The voice was hollow, metallic, direct, the words sounding old and long-practiced.

"Caridin?"

The golem looked to Shale, only the tilt of its head belying any change in demeanor. "Shale. Shayle of House Cadash. That is a voice I have not heard in a very long time."

"You… know me?"

"Oh, yes. You volunteered for the procedure, along with many others of your house."

"My house? I was… a dwarf?" It blinked, taking half a step forward.

"As were we all once. But I remember being struck by your certainty, your eagerness. Rarely had I seen a woman so strong."

"A… woman?"

Alistair goggled. "You're _a girl_?"

Morrigan stepped forward, but her interest was not for Shale. "'Tis magic."

"Yes." Caridin nodded. "No smith can create life. But I perfected a transfer of… souls. At first it was only volunteers but soon that was not enough. And when I refused to continue, when I attempted to destroy the Anvil this…" He gestured along the length of his body. "…was my punishment."

"Destroy it?"

"You can't!"

Alistair whirled, saw Branka come skidding to a stop as she glared up at the golem.

"I found it! The Anvil is mine!"

"Actually…" He held up a finger but she pushed past him, striding closer to Caridin.

"You! How can you possibly—"

"—I built the traps so that the Anvil would not be used again." There was no emotion to the golem's voice, only a steadily increasing volume. "You do not know the price—"

"—Of course I know it! And I would gladly pay it!"

"And what do you think, stranger?" Caridin was looking to Alistair now.

"I… well, I need Branka's support. In naming the next king." He winced. "And if that means saving the Anvil…"

"I, too, am a paragorn."

"Oh hey, that's right." He tried not to let them see his relief. "'Cause I mean the whole soul stealing thing is really…" His eyes strayed to Oghren, saw the dwarf hide a choking cough behind his hand.

He seemed to sense the gaze, blinking up at him with a tired smile. "It's alright. That ain't the girl I married...not anymore." He shook his head with a heavy sigh. "Whatever you say, Warden."

Alistair turned to Caridin. "So there are two lords, Bhelen and Harrowmont but Bhelen's kind of a—"

"—It is unimportant. But I will forge you a crown fit for a true king of Orzammar. Proof of my work, of my word. You may choose who you will in my name."

"So… it's up to me?"

He nodded once, turning away toward the Anvil.

"You can't! You can't listen to that-that _thing_!"

Branka rushed forward but Alistair caught her easily, holding her gently, awkwardly by the shoulders. "We'll just… get you back to Orzammar then."

"No!"

He shot Oghren a pleading glance over his shoulder, giving Branka the opportunity to sink her teeth into the flesh of his hand. "Maker's breath! She _bit_ me!"

Oghren chuckled.

But Branka was drawing her blade, her shield bashing hard against Alistair's knee. He crumpled in surprise. "We-we're here to help you!"

"Ain't no use. She's crazier'n a nug in a tanner's shop." Oghren sighed, drawing his axe just in time to deflect a wild swing. "Branka!"

She hissed, spitting through her teeth. Lunging with sword and shield, she aimed to overpower him, to send him stumbling back. But Oghren held his ground, spinning once, his aim true.

As her head landed at his knees, Alistair pinched shut his eyes.

"Dammit, woman. You were brilliant, but you never were much of a fighter."


	27. Return to Denerim

"Are you sure you're alright?" Pausing before the doors to the Assembly chamber, Alistair looked to the dwarf at his side.

"Fine. I'm fine." Oghren unclasped the flask from his belt, tilting back his head for a long pull. "Let's give 'em what they want and be done with it."

The walk through the Deep Roads had been long, the exhaustion threatening to take them all. But it had been largely silent, the darkspawn they encountered dispatched without difficulty. Caridin's crown rested now beneath Alistair's arm, a magnificent monstrosity of dwarven craftsmanship. If the crown that Eamon planned to make him wear was anything like this… Alistair shook himself.

He had tried to draw Oghren out of himself, out of his drink. The dwarf had been worryingly quick to walk away, to leave Branka behind with Caridin and the Anvil. "It was where she would've wanted to be," he had said. He had even returned to teasing Morrigan and – if Alistair wasn't imagining it – she seemed to be indulging him.

"Perhaps you should have bathed before being presented to your betters."

Tucking the flask away, he chuckled. "That an offer to help me, then?"

Alistair spared her a grateful glance behind Oghren's back, but she quickly turned her eyes away. It had been like that ever since the night he had spoken of Duncan, worse since the night he had asked if she needed to talk about her mother.

Perhaps it had only been the similarity of the room in which they made their camp that night or the lingering, nagging guilt at having shared such things with her. She had looked surprised for the briefest of moments before that sneer returned. He couldn't even remember what she had said as she stalked away, but she had had little to say to him since.

Shale, too, had been strangely silent. But he couldn't worry about… her, couldn't worry about Morrigan, couldn't even worry about Oghren. Not now. There was a rising sense of… anticipation as the guards threw back the doors, as the familiar voices floated shouting from the chamber.

The throne of Orzammar. Alistair stopped, unable to pull his eyes away.

He was not the only one. To one side of it stood Harrowmont, on the other Bhelen. The Assembly had gathered and all of them were looking to him. Maker, was this what it was like to be king?

_Yes,_ something in him said. Again, his gaze strayed to the great seat at the room's end but he knew then that the reverence, the sadness was not his own.

"It is well known that the Grey Warden is Harrowmont's hireling." Bhelen was sneering down at him, eyes flickering to the crown tucked beneath Alistair's arm.

Something in the surety of that glare sent a tension spreading through Alistair's shoulders. When he spoke the words were booming, certain. "I have found the Paragon Caridin. He's… alive. And he has forged this crown for his king."

"And who did Caridin choose?" Still it was Bhelen who addressed him, eyes narrowing as Morrigan leaned close to Alistair's shoulder.

"Do _not_ tell them that he left it up to you."

"I'm not stupid." Again, he raised his voice to the crowd. "The Paragon Caridin has chosen Lord Harrowmont."

"You've learned our ways well, surfacer."

Alistair started to see the familiar dwarf stride to his side, the vision wavering as he grinned up at him. He hoped the others didn't notice.

"They don't doubt you at all."

But the Steward was taking the crown from his hands now, holding it high as Harrowmont knelt. "…the King of Orzammar, the first chosen in generations by the Ancestors."

"You mean by some meddling Grey Warden!" Bhelen thundered down from the throne. "How do we know we can even trust him? Do you _know_ what they're saying about the Wardens on the surface?"

"Ooh." Beside Alistair, the spirit quirked a brow. "Something tells me you're going to enjoy this just as much as I."

"Trust me, I never enjoy it."

Bhelen's men had drawn arms, hidden beneath their cloaks and armor. The guards surged to meet them, even the Deshyrs swinging their staffs as they fled. But Bhelen was moving straight toward Alistair, face twisting in an expression of unrepentant rage. Alistair found himself sneering in disgust as he stepped aside, a growl growing in his throat as his shield took the stumbling dwarf in the back of the head. Bhelen spun, his sword arcing in a final, desperate swing as Alistair plunged his own blade deep into his chest.

The prince staggered, falling to his knees, but there was no triumph here, the satisfaction tinged with unnamed regret.

It was slowly that Harrowmont ascended to the throne, looking long across the spilt blood, the fallen Deshyrs and guards. He sat with a heavy sigh, nodding down at them. "When the time comes, you will have your army."

As they moved for the doors, Alistair turned round once more. There beside the king stood the fading image of a young dwarf, his head hung in silent resignation.

* * *

They couldn't get quick enough out of Orzammar. When they came to the great doors, Alistair was unsurprised to find Oghren still at his side. "Are you—?"

"—Just give me a moment." He looked to the sky, swallowing hard.

"You could stay. You know, if you want."

"It's a messy business you're in, boy. Gonna need all the help you can get."

Alistair smiled down at him. There was something wavering behind the dwarf's eyes. At first he mistook it for gratitude, tears perhaps at the realization that he had nothing left, but Oghren shoved him aside, promptly leaning over the ramp to vomit. "Bloody… big… sky." He wiped a hand across the back of his mouth with a barking laugh.

It took them a moment to find the others. Alistair could not say how long they had been down there, but the snows had deepened, a sturdy lean-to sagging beneath the weight of the drifts where their tents had been. Bending to peer inside, Alistair found only an undistinguishable pile of blankets. "Hello?"

"So he returns, does he? I hope it was at least warm beneath all that rock." Zevran's head poked free, fixing him beneath a smirking glare.

"It was. Very comfortable. Except for the darkspawn and the death and all that."

A second bulge shifted, twisting to face him. "And yet you survived. I am impressed."

"Sten? What are you… doing under there?"

Zevran chuckled.

"Sharing warmth. It is a technique that my ancestors used when we conquered such inhospitable lands, a technique that we will use again when we conquer yours."

"Ooh, defensive." Alistair smiled.

"You do have quite a lot of warmth, my friend." With a mischievous wink, Zevran scooted closer.

Sten bolted up and out of the shelter with a growl.

"Oh, leave him alone."

Alistair turned to see Leliana and Wynne striding from the merchant stalls. Leliana's grin spread wide, the scars puckering as she dashed toward him. She stopped short, though, looking over his shoulder.

He turned to find Morrigan hovering close, much too close. "Um, hello? Personal space?" As she backed away, he pulled Leliana into his arms, hesitating only a moment before laying a kiss upon her brow.

Zevran stood, draping the blankets around him with a smirk.

Alistair looked between them, between Wynne and Sten. "Wait. You… _all_ slept in there? Together?"

Leliana giggled.

"Do not fear, my friend. Either our Sister is truly as chaste as she claims, or you leave more of a lasting effect than I gave you credit for."

"…Thanks? I think."

But Zevran's gaze had already shifted to Oghren. "It seems we have acquired a dwarf."

"Heh. An elf, huh?"

They looked at each other for a long moment before bursting into laughter.

"Riiight. Weird."

But Leliana was watching him, expression suddenly serious. "That is… the last, no? The dwarves and the elves and the mages..."

Alistair sagged, nodding slowly. They had finished what they had begun in Orzammar but it wasn't over, it wasn't ever over. In fact, it had only just begun.

* * *

"Are you sure about this? I mean, are you _absolutely_ sure about this?"

Walking beside Alistair, Eamon shook his head. "I swear, Cailan was never this uncertain."

"I'm not Cailan!"

It had been childish, he knew, but Eamon only chuckled. "No one is asking you to be. But you have accomplished much as a Grey Warden, and on your own. You would do well to remember that."

Alistair sighed. He wasn't really fighting it, not anymore. As they had made the journey from Orzammar to Redcliff Morrigan had joked that he looked like a man going to the gallows. But it had been only half-heartedly that he made his final protests to Eamon, something to fill the hours on their long journey to Denerim. The Landsmeet had already been called; it was out of his hands now. Odd that that thought brought something almost like… relief.

As they crossed beneath the city gates, Eamon was still speaking. Something about earning the trust of the nobles and determining just how deep Loghain had laid the roots of his schemes. Alistair wasn't listening. His eyes darted through the crowd as though expecting the words to bring forth the man himself. Somewhere in this city he would get his chance.

But it was another face that he recognized, the shock of it not his own. It seemed whatever had taken hold of him with Bhelen, with Jarvia was not through with him yet.

The man had a proud bearing, stiff but somehow slouching, taking the parting of the crowd before him for granted. His was a face made for sneering, the glare that he turned on Eamon twisting into a self-satisfied smile. If he wondered at the presence of the strangers, the odd pairing of golem, Qunari, elf and dwarf, he did not show it, did not acknowledge them at all.

"Eamon. So it is true."

"Rendon." He paused, his voice coming flat and cold. "Alistair, this is Rendon Howe, Arl of Amaranthine."

"And Teryn of Highever." He chuckled. "And current Arl of Denerim. Loyalty has its rewards, as you would do well to realize, Eamon."

"Highever? And Denerim? What of Arl Urien?"

"Killed at Ostagar, I'm afraid."

"And Bryce Cousland?"

Howe only shook his head, eyes straying to something over Eamon's shoulder. "Ah."

Alistair felt himself stiffen. Howe was watching him now, he realized, the cat curiously waiting to see what the mouse might do.

"Now, now, Eamon. To what do we owe this honor?"

The others turned. Alistair didn't. It was a voice he had heard only briefly but one that he had committed to memory. So certain it had been, bent close with Duncan in council, pledging, promising, turning any doubt from their plan. Alistair should have known, should have… sensed something. But all he had done was complain about being sent on an errand. An errand that had saved his life.

He felt a hand on his arm, Leliana's soothing whisper in his ear. But he did not hear the words. Turning slowly, Alistair raised his eyes.

Loghain's gaze flickered to him, but there was no recognition there. "So this is him, Eamon? The puppet you would sit on the throne?"

"I am a Grey Warden."

He sneered. "A name that means nothing anymore. Except perhaps betrayer."

There was another hand on his arm now, Sten moving to his other side. Alistair pulled against it, but could not shake him off. "_You_. You're the traitor. You left _your king_, _the Wardens_ to die."

Howe snorted. "Slander and lies."

"Were you there?"

"No." He chuckled. "No, I wasn't."

"I was." Alistair hadn't noticed the woman standing just behind Loghain. "Do not speak of matters which you do not understand."

"_Understand_? How can you not see what he did? What he _is_?"

The woman took half a step back, but Oghren moved to stand before Alistair. He could feel the others shifting behind him, stepping closer as Sten and Leliana both tightened their grip on his arms.

Zevran leaned close to whisper in his ear. "Be still, my friend."

Looking to them, Loghain threw back his head to laugh. "_This_ is what you would put on the throne, Eamon? But you may have your Landsmeet. In fact, I look forward to it. Let all of Ferelden see your schemes, you pretensions to the throne." He had turned away, glancing over his shoulder as he made his way back toward the city. "And control your man, Eamon. Or I will."

* * *

He barely remembered the walk to the Arl's Denerim estate. Eamon had been speaking again of uncovering Loghain's influence, of winning the others nobles to their side. Alistair had roused only long enough to ask why they had even been allowed through the gate, why Loghain didn't attack them or arrest them outright.

There had been a smile there as Eamon looked at him. "Because he thinks that he will win. He does not doubt it for a moment. And this, I think, is our advantage."

They had been shown to their chambers, the halls vaguely recalling fleeting moments of his childhood. But it was different, too quiet despite their numbers, the long breath before the plunge. And they had changed the dining room.

Alistair found Leliana in her room. "You know you could…" He gestured to the hallway. "…with me… if you want."

Seeing the expression on his face, she giggled, coming quick to her feet to lay a kiss on his cheek. "It would hardly be proper. We are unmarried and you are trying to impress some very important people, no? And if you are going to be king…"

She let the words hang, as if expecting him to say something more, but Alistair only shook his head in relief. "Oh. Oh, good. I was thinking it might be because of… well, because of Bann Teagan."

"_Teagan_?" She laughed.

Their latest stay in Redcliff had been brief, but Leliana had spent quite a lot of time walking with the Arl's younger brother. Talking and laughing and touching him on the arm…

She shook her head, her smile growing wider. "He is a charming man, but you have nothing to fear. And we have quite a bit in common." She ran a finger along her scars.

"Oh. Right." Teagan had lost his eye in the battle for Redcliff and bore a similar mark.

"I did draw the line when he asked if I wanted to 'peek behind the patch,' as he put it."

Alistair blinked. "That… that's…"

She giggled. "Apparently it works for him."

There was a sudden crash in the hall, the commotion bringing them both to the door.

"Calm down, girl!"

"I will not! I need to see the Arl at once!"

The guards had surrounded a slight and cloaked figure, grumbling in shock as she pushed past them. Alistair shared a look with Leliana before following behind. At the door to the Arl's study one of the men grabbed the woman by the arm, forcing her to stop as he announced her. She was an elf, Alistair saw, her hood slipping to reveal a pointed scowl.

"Apologies for the interruption, My Lord. You have a visitor. And apparently one too important to wait."

Eamon rose from his desk, but the elf had already pushed her way into the room. "I bring a message from the queen."

There was a moment's surprise on the old man's face, but his sigh was weary as he waved the guards away. "Alistair, stay. I fear this concerns you too."

The elf glared. "And who is he?"

"One who will hear what you have to say, if you are fortunate."

Alistair turned to Leliana but she was watching the woman with a curious expression. Meeting his eyes, she shook her head. It was intended as a warning, though he could not guess why.

As she slipped through the door, the Arl returned to his desk, gesturing for the woman to sit. She remained standing. "My name is Erlina, handmaiden to Queen Anora."

"Anora. Loghain's daughter." Alistair scowled but they both ignored him.

"She is being held captive by Arl Howe. She is clever, my mistress, and has her suspicions about her father's role in the king's death. But she goes to this snake with her ideas, to see what he knows. And he holds her there. 'A guest' he calls her."

Eamon shook his head. "Howe is firmly in Loghain's pocket. Surely he could order him to release her."

"That is the problem! Loghain _knows_ and still he does nothing! I-I fear he wants her out of the way so that he might rule in her place. I fear that they will do something worse once she is no longer useful."

"Wait… he kidnapped his own daughter? Oh, real nice guy." Still they ignored him.

"Anora is well liked. Neither Loghain nor Howe is foolish enough to do such a thing."

Erlina folded her arms. "None know that it is Howe who has her, only that her disappearance coincides with your arrival in Denerim."

"I see." Eamon stroked his beard. "And what do you propose?"

"I have been allowed to come and go as she needs for the moment, but I will not be able to free her myself. I can provide the uniforms of the Arl's guards… disguises, but I will need men. Anora knows you have called the Landsmeet; she begs your assistance so that she may be able to speak for herself."

The Arl sat in silence for a long moment. "Alistair."

He blinked. "You can't honestly be considering this."

"Anora's support would be more beneficial than that of any Bann or Arl."

"Yes, but she's the _queen_… and Loghain's daughter. You don't think she'd actually—?"

"—Please, sir. Howe is a terrible man."

"Not arguing that point." He shook his head. "But how do we know this isn't a trap?"

"It may well be." Eamon came to his feet. "But our only hope now is in taking chances."

Alistair sighed. "Somehow I thought you'd say something like that."

* * *

Slipping through the crowd at the gates, they found Erlina waiting round the side of Howe's estate. Apparently they weren't the only ones displeased with the way the new Arl was running things. The elf continued pacing as they approached, the armor that she had gone ahead to retrieve waiting at her feet.

"Come, we must hurry."

Zevran grinned. "You did not tell us that our mysterious contact was a woman of such beauty."

With a chuckle, Leliana bent and began shifting through the gear. "Hush, Zevran." She spared Erlina what was meant to be a reassuring smile, but her scars twisted puckering.

The woman looked quickly away.

"Your accent… you are from Orlais, no?"

Erlina sniffed, still avoiding her eyes.

"You are very bold for a servant."

"This is unimportant."

"_Il est sage de la reine d'employer une barde._"

The breath caught in the elf's throat. Scowl deepening, she pushed past them and started down the alley than ran behind the estate.

Shoving the ill-fitting helm awkwardly onto his head, Alistair caught her arm. "I'll go first. Might be dangerous."

For some reason, Leliana chuckled.

The way was narrow but held close to the rising garden walls. If there were guards on the walkways above, they would not be able to see them here. But if this was a trap, they would probably wait until they were inside to spring it, wait until they were beyond escape.

Rounding a corner, he found a blade dancing at his throat.

Alistair gulped, raising his hands instinctively. His eyes followed the length of the sword, rising to meet those of a haggard and scowling man. But his blade was unwavering, glare flashing with something like triumph.

"Stop right there."

His beard was wild, his dark hair long and lank, his cheeks much too thin. It should have been a broad face, the once-smiling creases at the corners of his mouth making him look older than he should. And yet to see him here Alistair felt something like… relief. Relief for a blade at his throat? Right.

Zevran had circled round behind the man, drawing his daggers. Slowly, Alistair shook his head.

"Take me to Howe."

"That's uh… that's actually where we're going. But I don't think we're exactly—"

"—_Now_."

Alistair felt the blade bite into his skin, but still he couldn't shake the feeling. "What do you… want with the Arl? I mean, if you don't mind my asking."

The man laughed, bitter, ragged, weary. "His blood. But I could start with yours."

He quirked a brow at Erlina. "Real nice idea with the guard disguises, by the way. Thanks for that."

"Disguises." The stranger's eyes narrowed.

Alistair shrugged. "We're not really guards. We're looking for Howe too."

"And what has he done to you?"

"Nothing. I mean, besides being really mean. But he's holding the queen captive and we're here to rescue her."

"The queen. There are no lengths to which the man would not stoop." He took a step back, sheathing his blade. "Then it seems, stranger, that our interests are for the moment the same."

Alistair sagged. "I'm Alistair, by the way. Of the Grey Wardens."

The man smiled. "Fergus Cousland."


	28. The Arl's Estate

"Your… wife?"

"And my son." Fergus sighed. "My mother and father… my little brother. Everyone that I had ever known, ever shared a smile with slaughtered. While _Arl Howe_ was a guest in our home."

Alistair shook his head. "He said that he was the Teryn of Highever. I-I think Loghain granted it to him."

"Of that I have no doubt." His head tilted, expression almost softening as he studied him. "And what did Loghain do to you?"

"Oh you know, left the king to die. Abandoned the Grey Wardens."

"My force was small and already scouting deep in the Wilds. We arrived at Ostagar too late. But there is more… something personal." He smiled at Alistair's surprise. "We can sense our own."

"It's… like you said… about everyone that you had ever known."

Fergus nodded. "As I said, my force was small. Ostagar was overrun and we were ambushed. I found myself amongst the Chasind, under the care of their healers. When I was well enough to travel again… when I heard what had happened in Highever…" His eyes grew cold. "I had intended to see to Howe alone."

Alone. It wavered there over the man's shoulder, the boy younger but familiar, watching them with a sad smile. He had appeared some time ago, but Fergus had not noticed Alistair's distraction. Maker, he was getting good at this. Now _that_ was an unsettling thought.

"What… what was your brother's name?"

The smile was the same, caring nothing for the strangeness of the question. "Aedan. His name was Aedan."

"And do you think… Aedan would approve?" Alistair gestured to the two guards slumped against the door. Fergus had dispatched them quickly, violently, ignoring Erlina's protests about stealth.

The vision nodded vigorously as Fergus chuckled. "My brother always was… eager. Perhaps if I had let him ride out with the advance force…" He shook his head. "But do you truly think that playing dress up will make your task easier?"

"Just… humor me."

"You only have three uniforms."

"Take mine." Zevran was already shrugging out of his overlarge breastplate, unlacing the leathers at his neck so that they looked something like a simple tunic. "Elves tend to be… overlooked. It makes certain tasks _remarkably_ easy." He slipped an arm through Erlina's with a grin.

She scowled, bouncing impatiently on the balls of her feet but Fergus acquiesced, pulling the gleaming armor over his battered and once-fine mail.

Alistair nodded. "Thank you."

Again he paused, studying him. "You are sure we have not met?"

It was the second time he had asked the question. Alistair shook his head.

"You have an… air about you. Not exactly nobility. You put people at ease."

"I think I'd prefer to be large and threatening."

He laughed. "We learn to work with what we have…. even if we have nothing. Don't underestimate it."

"Wise words, Lord Cousland."

Turning to Leliana, he seemed surprised to find the others still there. "Lord Cousland is dead. And the time for words is over."

* * *

"I don't believe it! I don't believe that actually worked!"

Erlina spun, hissing as she put a finger to her lips.

"Sorry, sorry." Alistair flushed, inching further along the wall. They had ducked into a narrow alcove that branched off of the main hallway, mercifully out of sight of any passersby. So far none had questioned them, but it didn't stop the fluttering in his stomach.

Leliana was watching him with a bemused expression.

"What? I suppose this is fun for you, is it?"

"The… costume leaves something to be desired." She raised one thick and unadorned gauntlet, turning it so that it caught the light. "But yes."

"Glad someone's enjoying themselves." Turning, he stopped short. The passage ended abruptly in an arching door, but it shimmered at the edges, a faint haze wavering on the air.

It was to this that Erlina leaned, calling through the barrier. "My Lady. I have brought help."

"Thank the Maker!" The voice was muffled, distorted.

Alistair quirked a brow. "You didn't say anything about magic."

"Who is that?"

"He is a Grey Warden, My Lady."

"A Grey Warden?" The surprise was short lived, her tone again taking on a ringing air of command. "Good. I'm sure my handmaiden has informed you of my predicament. Arl Howe has a mage in his employ and it is his work that you see before you."

Right. Magic. He could do this. He had been trained to do this. Shutting his eyes, Alistair breathed deep.

"Hello? What is going on out there?"

"The Warden is… sleeping, My Lady. Quivering. I do not know."

Alistair opened one eye. "I'm not _sleeping_. I'm trying to cleanse the area – you know – dispel the barrier?"

"You are a mage, then?"

"No… I-I'm a templar. Or I was. Almost."

"Warden, are you going to do something _useful_ or will I have to rescue myself?"

He glared at the barrier. "Do you want to stay in there? You're not exactly in a position to be picky."

After a moment, he heard her sigh. "The man is a _powerful_ mage. I know of only one way to break the spell."

"Ask him nicely? I hate to tell you this, princess, but that's not exactly likely."

"I am your _queen_. And I do not care how you do it, so long as it gets done."

"Great. Wonderful." Apparently it _was_ possible to loathe a disembodied voice. He looked to Erlina. "Do you know where we might find this mage?"

"He will be with Howe. He spends much of his time in the dungeons."

"Maker's breath, why?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Some questions are better left unasked. But you will find the entrance down the hall and to your left."

"You're not coming?"

She glared. "My place is here."

"Right. Has anyone ever told you that you and your mistress make a great pair? No? Too bad."

* * *

They found the entrance to the estate's lower levels easily enough. Even if Erlina hadn't directed them, they might well have found it by the smell. There had been dungeons in Redcliff Castle, of course, but they had not been used for anything more than storing wine in years. Well, except for Jowan. Alistair snorted at the thought.

But this brought another whiff of the heavy, acrid stink. He coughed. Maker, what was the Arl doing down here?

"Ahh, a bit of torture before bedtime." Zevran sighed. "This brings back memories."

Alistair caught his eye, remembering the elf's dream in the Circle Tower. After a moment, Zevran chuckled and turned away.

They reached the end of a sloping ramp, the door at the bottom open enough to reveal a pair of slouching guards. Erlina had said that Howe hired more and more every day, any man with combat experience. They could find themselves facing boys or Crows or hardened veterans with no way to be certain.

One of them glanced up, spotting them. "Hoy! You there!"

Alistair looked to the others, saw Zevran slipping toward a convenient shadow, Fergus' hand twitching toward his blade. Leliana smirked in Alistair's direction, stepping through the door with a grin.

"Hello."

The guard blinked, gaping openly at her face, for the moment off balance. Fergus moved behind her, lunging round to drive his sword cleanly through the man's chest.

"Hey! Hey! _Sneaking_!" Alistair looked to the other guard.

He started, fumbling for his weapon, but an arm thrust from the cell at his back, snaking round his throat to pull him back against the bars. The man struggled but it pinned him there, the elbow jutting as it gave his neck a final, sickening twist. As he slumped the hand followed, unclasping the keys at his belt and working the lock.

"Thank you for the distraction, my friends. You do not know how long I have been waiting for such an opportunity."

Alistair stepped round, avoiding the sight of the horribly twisted guard. The man in the cell straightened, flicking a strand of long and filthy hair from his eyes. He was naked, unshaven, the flesh where Alistair dared to look covered in fresh welts and scars. But he stood proudly, meeting his wondering gaze with a small and knowing smile. Alistair saw then the reason he had only used one hand. The other was missing entirely, his arm ending just below the elbow in a ragged and poorly cauterized stump.

"Maker's…"

The man chuckled, raising the hand that was no longer there. "The hospitality of the Howes."

The rasp, that heavy half-sigh was suddenly familiar. "You… you're a Grey Warden. You were at my Joining."

"My name is Riordan, senior Grey Warden of Jader." He moved from the cell, bracing his hand against the bars as he stepped over the fallen guard. Though it seemed no more battered than any other part of him, his left leg dragged uselessly behind.

"In Orlais." Leliana smiled, regarding him a moment before bending to remove the guardsman's armor.

He spared her a grateful nod. "But I was born and bred in Ferelden. It is why I volunteered to come here, to investigate the events at Ostagar. A full force of Orlesians would arouse suspicion considering our recent history but, in retrospect, I was perhaps a bit too cautious."

Leliana had slipped free the guard's breeches, handing them to Riordan with a quiet laugh.

Alistair, though, was still blinking in stunned silence. "You were… a friend of Duncan's."

"I was. His loss saddens me more than you know." He moved as if to lay a hand on Alistair's arm. Realizing it was no longer there, he smirked.

"But how did this Arl Howe manage to capture a Grey Warden such as yourself? He did not seem a particularly daring sort." Zevran leaned back against the wall.

"Loghain may hold the leash, but still the dog has teeth of its own."

Fergus snorted.

"He opened his doors to me with the promise of hospitality, information and a warm meal. The wine, of course, was poisoned but I realized too late. I drew my blade, attempting to rise from my seat, but Howe was quicker. He quite literally disarmed me."

Alistair shook his head. "That's not funny."

"At least he had the nerve to do it himself."

Riordan looked to Fergus with something like surprise. "Yes. He does seem to enjoy it." With Leliana's help, he slipped the guardsman's breastplate over his head.

"Is he… here?" Alistair looked between Cousland and the Warden with an uncomfortable shrug. "We-we're sort of after some vengeance ourselves, I think."

"The screams started some time ago." Riordan sighed, nodding down the hallway. "But vengeance is for the young. And I do not think I would be much use to you in my current state. I will slip out as you have entered. There are some documents I must recover and then I must find a healer."

"But you can't! You're a Grey Warden! I can't be the last!"

Riordan studied him for a long moment. "That is a fact more unfortunate than either of us realizes, I think. But it is a fact nonetheless. I will rejoin you as soon as I am able. Is there somewhere we can meet?"

"Arl Eamon is housing us."

"Good. I shall find you there." He nodded once, turning for the ramp with slow and dragging steps.

Alistair watched him go, playing the words over in his mind. Another Warden, a man who had known Duncan. And yet still he felt alone.

There were many cells here, some empty and some not, the stench thickening as they moved deeper into the dungeons. Many they might have freed but they lay still now, left where they had fallen. Even Zevran had buried his nose in his sleeve, the jests dying on his tongue. Only Fergus seemed unaffected, his eyes focused unflinchingly ahead. When Alistair heard the shouts, he stumbled.

"You! You there! Let me out!"

It flared behind his eyes, swelling toward the voice, burning red and searing. His entire body seeming to ache with it. Clenching his teeth, Alistair forced himself to move forward, to face the man straining through the bars. Something in him soared to see the filth he had been reduced to, but still he sneered, always sneering, always demanding, always…

Leliana screamed.

Looking down, Alistair saw his sword in his hand. He had thrust it through the bars and into the man's gut.

"Alistair!"

He staggered backward, letting the sword fall. But he wasn't seeing the shock on the stranger's face, the eyes glazing as he sank against the bars. The redness on his hands had been his own once… in the Fade… the very same wound given to him by a slight and scowling elven girl.

"Alistair?"

She stood there, just beside the gate. Older now and dressed in faded finery, she watched the man fall. Turning to Alistair, she smiled.

"Alistair."

He blinked and the elf was gone.

Even Fergus was staring at him in open shock. "That… that is Vaughan Urien, the Arl of Denerim's son."

"Correction. That _was_ Vaughan Urien."

Leliana gaped at him in horror. But she was right, the tone had not been his own.

Alistair ran a trembling hand through his hair. "I-I'm sorry."

"Don't be." He had not seen the opposite cell, the young elf rising slowly to his feet. "That man… he was…" The boy steeled himself visibly, holding Alistair's gaze. "Don't be."

Zevran had stepped round, bending to work the lock on the elf's cell.

"What are you doing? He might be—" At a glare from the assassin, Alistair fell silent.

"Thank you." The boy hesitated only a moment before the open door. Darting between them, he moved to the other cell. One of Vaughan's arms had fallen between the bars, the bones of his fingers crunching as the elf's boot came down. Again and again he stomped, subsiding only when Zevran took him firmly by the shoulders. With a final sob, the boy spit on the body.

"Whoa! What are you—?"

"Leave him be, my friend. You would not understand."

But the boy was looking to Alistair now. "Thank you for what you have done. It does not change anything, not really, but it means more than you know."

"Do you… I mean, can we help you get out of here?"

"I know the way." He shook his head. "But there is no help for us, not anymore, not with what they are doing."

"'They?'"

"The Arl and Loghain."

"Loghain."

The boy's eyes flickered to Zevran, as if seeking encouragement, unwilling to face the rest of them.

"We help people, you know. It's just kind of… what we do."

Zevran nodded.

Still the boy looked uncertain, but he shook himself, raising his chin. "My name is Soris. If you find your way to the Alienage… ask for me." With that, he turned and fled.

Stepping back into the main hallway, Alistair sighed. "When you said I wouldn't understand…"

"You are human." Zevran had drawn his blades, slipping carefully along the wall as he watched the way ahead.

"Right. Thought so. Some sort of elven solidarity thing, then? I see how you could sympathize with—"

He stopped short, glaring up at him. "—I do _not_ sympathize. Does one sympathize with cattle? With those who allow themselves to be herded, to be used? At best they have my pity, more likely my disgust."

"But don't you—?"

He hissed, nodding toward a distant door. "Ask Leliana, should you wish to hear the tragic tale. But now is not the time."

There was light flickering in the room ahead, the low moan almost drowned by a slithering chuckle. Alistair recognized Howe's narrow frame, his back to them as he bent low across the table. A man lay there, bound and twisting. Another stood at his head, hands flickering electric over his torso, presumably the mage who had bound the queen. None seemed to notice them.

"No! No… Janet!" The man arched with a scream.

"He is delusional, my Lord."

"Pity." Howe tsked. "Silence him quickly."

The mage's hands lowered, one slipping into the man's mouth as he howled. "No… damni—!"

The Arl turned away with a snort of disgust. Noticing them at last, he sneered. "Eamon's pet Warden, isn't it? How did you get in here?"

"_Howe_ did we get in here?"

"They say your kind are clever. And to think I did not believe it."

"Right." With a sheepish grin, Alistair drew his sword. "You're a bad, bad man."

Fergus moved behind him, shouldering him roughly aside. His own blade slid free with a hiss, holding stiffly beside Alistair's as he took a slow step forward. "Howe."

He smirked. "Have we met?"

Cousland's shoulders tensed as he drew himself up to his full height. Whatever bitter weariness had weighed there seemed to fade as he leveled his blade at the Arl's chest. The shadows of his face shifted, the smile triumphant.

"Ah, Bryce and Eleanor's youngest."

Fergus flinched with each name, but still his arm held steady. "Eldest. I am their eldest."

"Hmm. So hard to keep track of these things, really. When the bitch has too many pups…"

This at last seemed to stop him, allowing Howe to turn away. He moved to a chest against the wall, bending to rummage through its contents.

Beside Alistair, Zevran snorted. "Trophies."

"Perhaps." Howe straightened, his back to them. It was a sword that he held before him, slipping it free of the sheath as he turned. "Though this one, I think, you will recognize."

Eyes wide, Fergus took another step forward. "You can't—"

Howe moved quick, with an ease and deadly grace that Alistair had not expected, pressing the blade's tip to Fergus' throat. "—Ironic, isn't it?"

"Do it, then." His eyes narrowed. "At least you can say you had the nerve to kill one of us yourself."

The Arl chuckled, stepping back. "Is that what you want?" He shook his head. "Doric!"

The mage moved in the same moment that Fergus' charged, the stones beneath his feet trembling and shifting. He staggered, frozen in place as his boots seemed to harden, the cracking grey of the stone spreading up and over his legs.

Leliana had drawn her bow, sending a shaft flying from over Alistair's shoulder to pin the mage's sleeve to the table. It took him a moment to tug himself free, looking up just in time for Zevran to knock a handful of dirt into his eyes. He whirled away, casting a shield, the spell stopping forgotten at Fergus' knees. But still he was unable to move.

"The Arl!"

The cry was echoed, the younger Cousland appearing again amongst the deeper cells. Howe was fleeing, pressing a switch beneath the stone to reveal a hidden door. Alistair rushed him, grunting as he turned to parry just in time.

"Warden." He hissed.

The spirit hovered at his shoulder, glaring down at the Arl's sword. Alistair swung once, twice, using his reach, making the old man work to deflect the strikes. He thrust, twisting his wrist, sending the stolen sword flying from Howe's hand.

The boy beside him smiled.

But even disarmed, the Arl managed to stand straight, to sneer.

Alistair sighed. "It shouldn't be me doing this. I shouldn't have to."

Howe opened his mouth to speak, but the words died as the blade thrust home.

Alistair turned just in time to see the mage fall beneath Zevran's daggers, the spell round Fergus' legs fading. Shaking himself, he made his way cross the room, staring down at the fallen Arl or a long and silent moment.

"You have my thanks."

"Yeah."

He seemed to notice it then, the fallen sword. Bending, he lifted it, running a hand caressingly along the blade. "It has been in my family for generations. To think of it in the hands of…" He unsheathed his own blade, tossing it unceremoniously across the body as he slipped the other over his shoulder. "You say that Arl Eamon has called the Landsmeet. I will speak for you there. The world must know of Howe's treachery. Of Loghain's."

Alistair blinked. "Thank you."

"These will help, I think." Leliana had bent to the chest, lifting a handful of rings and jewels. "If Howe was imprisoning those who opposed him, their families will be interested to have these back."

"Then come." The smile was small as Fergus looked to him, but the man seemed somehow lighter, younger, familiar. "We have a queen to rescue."

* * *

The found Erlina waiting by the door in the upper hall, the woman at her side pacing impatiently in another of the guardsman's uniforms. How anyone could mistake that gait, that tall and proud bearing for anything other than royalty, though, Alistair could not imagine. The face beneath the overlarge helmet had something of her father's features, but her mouth pouted where his scowled, the overall effect one of deliberate and dangerous beauty.

"What are you staring at?"

He had stopped, he realized, hiding his flush beneath a hasty bow. "The-the... ensemble suits you, My Lady."

She sniffed.

"Come." Erlina stepped between them. "Come, we must hurry."

They made their way through the halls, keeping the queen at their center. A large party and an awkward one, but they need not have worried about attracting attention. As the corridor opened into a wide foyer, Alistair cursed beneath his breath.

"Right. Trap. What did I tell you?"

Guards filled the room from wall to wall, a full contingent of archers shadowing their every move. Alistair recognized the woman who had been with Loghain at the gate.

"Oh, thank the Maker!" Anora threw aside her helmet, rushing toward the woman. "This-this Grey Warden! He is trying to kidnap me! He forced me into this horrible outfit!"

"You bitch!"

She did not turn, but the words took on a commanding edge. "Surrender quietly, Warden, and they will not hurt you."

"Yeah. Right." He drew his sword, saw the archers stiffen, saw Anora turn with a glare.

Leliana had nocked her own bow, chewing her lip in doubtful concentration.

"Zevran." Alistair didn't look at them.

"Yes?"

"Get Leliana out of here."

"_What_?"

He moved without looking at her, lunging toward the guards. Fergus was at his side, ducking as one of the archers loosed.

"Hold!" The woman from the gate held up her arm. "Take the Warden alive."

They moved as one, striking to disarm, to injure. Alistair fell forward beneath a blow to the back, raising his head just enough to see Zevran cutting a path toward the door, Leliana struggling against his grip on her wrist. Fergus fell beside him then, his breath hot, heavy, the spray of it red across his lips.

Holding Alistair's eyes, his smile faltered, lips trembling as he tried to speak. But before he could hear the words, the world went dark.


	29. Fort Drakon

"Alistair? Oh, thank the Maker!"

He woke to find Leliana smiling down at him, her hair falling cross her eyes as she lay a kiss on his forehead. As she pulled away he brushed those strands aside, finding her cheek whole and unmarked beneath.

"How—?"

"—Hush. It's over now."

They had been in Arl Howe's estate, ambushed. How had they escaped? Why couldn't he remember? She leaned low, pressing her lips to his.

It reached him then, that vague sense of loss, a strangeness he had not recognized until it was gone. He couldn't feel them. He was alone. And there was something on the air, a thick and choking smoke, trembling with the echo of distant screams.

"No!" He pushed himself up on his elbows, head twisting from side to side. They were in a high place, all of Denerim spread out beneath them, the bed resting on a broken expanse of stone and ash. But there were people moving below, picking themselves up, the last of the darkspawn fleeing before them.

Leliana sat back on her knees, smiling still. "You did it. It's over."

Again he looked to her, saw the scars return, deepening, opening, bleeding. He gasped, cupping her cheek. The smile was sad now.

"What-what did I do?"

"We helped. We made it." Her skin was the color of the ash below, her eyes growing glazed. "But you did it. Alone. You killed the archdemon."

It blazed behind his skin, searing, burning. The surface of it slithered, the taint awakened as he threw back his head to scream. His vision blurred as he watched Leliana sink sideways and fall still, as his back arched against the pillows. Maker, the pain.

"It does not have to be this way."

The words were cool, soothing, cutting through the fog.

"Who—?"

It rested on his shoulder, blinking up at him with its hundred tiny eyes. "It does not have to be this way."

He was dying, dying and seeing talking spiders. He hated spiders.

The pain faded quick as it had come, his lungs filling in aching gasps. Alistair sank back, gulping deep. Something shifted as his feet. Leliana. Sitting up, he hissed.

It was Morrigan that leaned over him now, head tilting curiously.

"What are you—?"

"Always such a fool. You do not have to die."

When her lips found his all memory of pain vanished. The sounds below had faded, the breeze coming clean and whole and welcome. He felt stronger now, certain. Maker, what was he doing?

His hands roamed, pulling her to him, tracing the smooth lines of her back. He should have been surprised at her nakedness, should have flushed as he turned and pressed her roughly beneath him. Morrigan blinked up at him, smirking triumphant as her grip tightened on his—

"—Maker's breath!"

Alistair sat quick, chest heaving. His head swam, the ache deep and familiar and – thank the Maker – _real_. It was only a dream. He put a hand to his head. Only a dream.

Raising his eyes, he saw that he was in a cell of some kind, the ground beneath him hard and cold. They had taken his sword, his shield, his clothing. Looking down, he gulped. Oh. Right. Alistair pinched shut his eyes, willing his blood to cool. It was only a dream, a horrible, _horrible_ dream.

"They must have hit you pretty hard."

He started, moving quick to cover himself. "F-Fergus?"

The man managed a weak smile. He lay on the other side of the cell, curled on a bed of stinking straw. When he made no move to rise, Alistair slipped closer, saw that his hand were pressing an armful of the straw against his belly.

"Are you—?"

Fergus moved his hands a fraction, letting him see the deep and sucking wound beneath. Alistair turned away with a hiss.

"It's alright." He chuckled. "It's not as though I have much to live for."

"What about—?"

"—But I find myself in your debt and unable to pay the promised price."

"You don't have to—"

He shook his head. "—I wish that I could speak for you at the Landsmeet. They must be told. About Howe, about Loghain. But that is up to you now, I'm afraid."

Alistair looked to the door, to the guards pacing beyond.

"They put our gear in that chest there. Two guards, four hour shifts. We are deep in Fort Drakon if I had to guess. The exit will be to the southwest."

"You think we can just… walk out of here?"

"Oh no." He grinned. "I'm sure it will be much more fun than that. Now. Call them over here. Tell them I am dead."

"What? You're not… we'll get you out of here."

His smile turned sad as he closed his eyes. "Just tell them."

Alistair rose slowly, covering himself as he made his way toward the bars. "Um… excuse me." He glanced back at Fergus. "This… this man is dead."

The guards shared a look, moving closer. "Yeah? And why should we care?"

He swallowed. "He died on your watch. You do know who he is, right? This is Lord Cousland. Doesn't look good, does it? I mean, if there was anything you could have done…"

One of the guards scowled, nodding to the other as he slipped the key into the lock. "You, watch him." He glared at Alistair. "In the corner. Don't move."

Alistair raised his hands, stepping back as the second guard drew his blade and moved into the cell. The first bent to Fergus.

"Oh, bloody… that's disgusting."

"Is he—?"

"—I don't know." The man bent lower, hand reaching for Fergus' eyes.

They flew open, his teeth closing hand round the man's fingers. As he screamed, Fergus pushed himself up, grabbing the man by the hair. He let himself fall, pulling the man with him to smash his face against the floor.

The other had turned, allowing Alistair to ram an elbow into the back of his head, grabbing the sword as he crumpled.

"Wow! I don't believe that actually—" He stopped. The guard that he had hit drew a ragged breath, stirring but falling still. His companion lay in a spreading pool of blood and broken teeth. Nothing else in the cell moved.

No. Oh, no.

Cousland lay where he had fallen, slumped beside the guard, his eyes glazed and unseeing. The wound had torn wide, oozing fresh bowel and bile to stain the straw beneath. Alistair knelt, covering his mouth with the back of his hand.

At the gasp, he screamed and toppled backward.

"…Ouch." Fergus gulped deep, chuckling as he drew a shuddering breath.

"You-you…" Alistair righted himself. "That's not funny."

"You sound like my brother."

"Just stay… stay there. We're getting out of here."

Grabbing the keys from the guardsman's belt, Alistair hurried to the chest, returning with an armload of their gear. But Fergus' expression had darkened, the lines of his face seeming to deepen beneath the shadow of his eyes.

"Here, easy now." Alistair moved as if to slip an arm beneath him, but the other man only shook his head.

"It's too late."

"Not really. As far as I can tell we still have some time before they—"

"—Warden." His arm fell limp beside him, fingers stretching toward his sword.

"Right. Here you go. It's…"

But again the light had left those eyes, staring up at him cold and dark and unseeing. Alistair sank back on his heels.

"You'd better take it. He can be quite stubborn." The boy crouched in the corner, elbows resting on his knees. It was the same smile reflected, small and crooked, as if heavy with the weight of an unspoken secret. His gaze did not stray from the man between them.

"I…"

He raised his eyes. "And you had better hurry. You're already late."

"What? How can you—?"

"Go. Now. Or they will find you here."

Quickly he turned away, tugging on his breeches, chestplate, boots. When he had finished the boy was gone. Only Fergus and the fallen sword remained.

His own had been scavenged in the Deep Roads, a hasty replacement for many broken along the way. Hesitating only a moment, he bent to the blade, turning it, testing its weight. It wasn't right, not really. But when had it ever been? Sheathing it behind his shoulder, he made his way out of the cell.

* * *

Dead men did seem to give good directions. He had made his way south and west through the snaking corridors. There would be patrols, more guards; he could hear them through the doors of the rooms he passed. But always he seemed to avoid them, slipping away just before discovery. Alistair had just begun to wonder how big the fortress could possibly be when he heard the shouts ahead.

"If you had only let me speak—!"

"—'Twas not my idea. But we do not have the time for games."

He hesitated at that, drawing a deep breath as he pushed aside the door. The entry hall was wide, the pair of broad double doors open to the night. There had been two guards on duty but they lay now in a crumpled heap, Sten leaning on his sword between them. But the big man's eyes were fixed on Morrigan's glare, watching it deepen as Leliana let loose a growing string of Orlesian curses. No one was looking at him.

"Aw, you rescued me. How sweet."

They turned as one, Leliana's grin splitting wide as she rushed into his arms. His hand hesitated before falling against her hair, something of the dream stirring anew. He couldn't bring himself to look at Morrigan.

"I am surprised."

He looked to Sten with a smirk. "Yeah?"

"I assumed our mission would be to recover a corpse. But they would not be swayed."

"And yet you came too. I knew you cared."

He sheathed his sword with a grunt.

"Where is Lord Cousland?" Leliana must have felt him stiffen, her eyes wide as she pulled back to look at him.

"He… he didn't make it."

"I am sorry." She stared up at him for a long moment, stepping back when he refused to look at her. So many dead, so many were going to be dead. And it would always be his fault.

"Shall we go? Or do you plan to linger here until they take us all?"

He tried not to feel relief as he raised his eyes to Morrigan's, meeting her glare for glare. "Fine. Let's just… get out of here."

* * *

"The Elder Mage is certainly fond of asking irritating questions."

"There is nothing wrong with a little curiosity. And you are a fascinating creature, Shale."

The golem snorted.

"To think that you were once flesh, with life and breath and—"

"—It is a disgusting thought."

"Are you not the least bit curious about what your life was like, about who you were?"

"No."

"There are more pleasant aspects to living, you know. I may be old and human, but I am no fool. I have seen the way you look at him."

Shale growled. "It's body is weak and It's bits are sagging. Tell me again which parts are pleasant."

Rounding the corner, Alistair found Shale standing to one side of the door, Wynne seated on the other. They had reached Arl Eamon's estate without incident but when he had heard who else had been granted rooms…

Wynne's attention was focused on the needle in her hands, but there was a knowing smile there as the mage shook her head. At his approach she glanced up, gesturing with the freshly patched shirt. "Perhaps you'll be more careful with it this time?" She tossed it into his arms.

Alistair smirked. "I'm alive, by the way. Glad to see you were so concerned."

"I darned your socks as well."

"Oh. Oh, thanks."

Eamon came puffing up the hall behind him. "Alistair. If you will just wait a moment—"

"—Here? She's _here_? I can't believe you would… after what she…" He turned his scowl on the door that Wynne and Shale had been guarding.

"We must proceed carefully, hear her out. Your people have been watching her and I can assure you she has given no sign of—"

"—Double-crossing us? Leaving me to die? Right. Never that." He pushed aside the door.

"Funny. I was never that good at diamondback." Oghren lay his cards on the table, stroking a hand through his beard as he shook his head.

Zevran rose from the seat opposite with an exaggerated sigh, slipping his tunic up and over his head. "Perhaps you have more skill than you think, my friend." Tossing it aside he stretched, grinning at the women seated on the couch.

Anora scowled, scooting closer to her handmaiden. "If you insist on gambling, can you not at least do so for coin?"

"Oh, but it is so much more fun this way!"

Leaning in the doorway, Alistair chuckled.

"Ahh, Alistair. Alive and well, I see." Zevran's glare sharpened as looked to Anora. "I daresay the queen does not approve."

"And maybe I don't give a damn what the queen thinks."

She stood, chin tilting imperiously as she scowled. "Had you only listened—"

"—To what?"

"I said not to resist. I would have found some way to free you. But apparently you are too stubborn to—"

"—Anora, please."

Looking to Eamon, she subsided.

"Now. Alistair, we have made some progress with the affects that you recovered from the Arl's estate. A number of them belonged to very influential families who were most interested to hear of Howe's treachery. And since it is well known that he is Loghain's man…"

Alistair's eyes narrowed, watching Anora still. "You're not going to defend him?"

"I doubt my father knew the full extent of Howe's crimes."

"Riiight…"

She sighed. "Allow me to… apologize for my actions." Her lips twisted at the words. "But we are both safe now. Let us start over."

"A good man died because of you."

She blinked.

"Fergus Cousland? You remember him don't you?"

"Cousland? Of Highever? I had my suspicions about Howe came to rule there."

"By slaughtering an entire family. But I'm sure _your father_ knew nothing of that, right?"

Anora sighed, sinking heavy onto the edge of the couch. "My father has… changed. I have seen it more since Cailan's death." She shook her head. "But Howe is dead. Your friend found his vengeance."

"And that makes it alright, does it?"

Slowly, she raised her eyes. "No. It does not."

"What do you know about the alienage?" It occurred to him suddenly, though he could not say why. "I… met an elf. He seemed to think Howe and your father were up to something."

Anora looked unsurprised. "He may have been right. It started just after the uprising. A plague, they're calling it. But my father has allowed Tevinter mages into the city. Healers, they say."

"Tevinter…" Eamon shook his head. "Considering Loghain's position on the Orleasians it seems—"

"—Odd." She nooded. "As I thought. It has only seemed to make the elves more unsettled but he would not speak to me of it."

"Alistair."

"Right. Right. Investigate, save the elves. Got it."

Eamon scowled. "This is serious. Any evidence that we can uncover of Loghain's treachery…"

"Trust me. We'll bring him down."

Looking between them, Anora came slowly to her feet. "You seek to supplant my father. But what of the other matter, Eamon? If I am to help you, I would have certain assurances."

Alistair smirked. "You're not exactly in a position to—"

"—You have no idea what position I'm in."

"Anora, Ferelden will need a king." Eamon sighed.

"A king? Ferelden _has_ a queen."

"I did not say you were not capable, but Alistair is of Theirin blood."

Her eyes narrowed. Alistair found himself taking a step back.

"Do you really think it was Cailan who ruled? My husband was many things. But if you think it was he who…" She trailed off with a sigh, raising her eyes to Alistair's. "You seem resourceful enough and you do seem to inspire a… strange sort of loyalty."

He had almost forgotten that they were not alone. Zevran and Oghren still sat watching from the table, the others crowding round the door at his back. He smiled. "That's right. I… I guess I do."

"But you do see that this hardly makes you worthy of the throne?"

"Not arguing that point. And anyone's better than Loghain. But you're his… his…"

"You think I am my father?"

"Why not? Everyone expects me to be."

Zevran coughed, coming slow to his feet. "If I may be so bold, perhaps you could… share the throne?"

All eyes turned to look at him.

"The queen is very beautiful, yes?"

Alistair goggled. "You can't possibly be suggesting…?"

"A marriage of political convenience? They are not so strange as you might think. I myself have seen many… though usually as I was being chased from the wife's chambers by her rather angry husband." He smiled ruefully.

"You're insane." The others – thank the Maker – looked as bewildered as Alistair.

After a moment, Zevran shrugged. "Ahh, a foolish idea. I do not know what came over me."

"Right." Alistair could feel Anora's eyes on him but he could not bring himself to meet that gaze. "Can't we just… talk about this later? Those elves…"

Wynne moved round to stand beside him. "If it is indeed a plague as they are calling it, you may need my assistance."

"Yeah, good."

"And Morrigan. It will be good practice for her."

Morrigan looked as surprised as he.

"What's with that anyway? Why teach her healing? Isn't her job to be creepy and – you know – destroy everything she touches?"

He found himself caught between twin glares.

Eamon shook his head. "You cannot all go. Discretion is of the utmost importance. I would take no more than—"

"—Three?" Alistair sighed. "Fine. Zevran?"

"I truly would rather not."

He whirled, saw the distaste behind the elf's scowl. "Why? I mean that boy trusted you, right? We may need an in."

Bending to retrieve his tunic, Zevran sighed. "How you use me. Would you like to rent me out to wealthy noblewomen on the way as well?"

Alistair followed him through the door with a smirk. "You know I wouldn't do that."

"Tsk. Pity."

"Alistair." Eamon lay a hand on his arm. His brows drew low, voice dropping to a whisper. "If you truly seek to see Loghain pay for his crimes… As queen Anora would never allow…"

"Yeah. I know."

"And yet if she does not think that she has our support—"

"—You want to lie to her."

He hesitated, shaking his head as he glanced back toward the room. Alistair followed his gaze.

"I'll think about it."


	30. The Alienage

"So if the alienage is quarantined, why is the gate up?" Alistair paused, blinking up at the thick iron spikes suspended in the wall above. When last they had passed through this side of the market, the way had been barred, the guard on duty less than polite. The only elves they had seen were either dead or very, very drunk. He sighed at the memory, eyes straying higher. Mercifully, the hanging man had been taken down, the crows long since moved away to richer bones. Nothing stirred here now.

"Maybe they all up an' died. And none too soon, Maker preserve us." He hadn't seen the old woman passing behind them. Hitching her cloak closer around her, she spat on the ground. "I'd go no closer, I were you."

"So no one comes out?"

Her laugh was little more than a rasping cough. "Why would they? Blighted they are, wherever they go. They's lucky those Tevinters show half the pity they do, but I never heard a kind word about a Tevinter, me. Leave 'em to each other, I says; they's only elves."

Alistair moved instinctively, putting himself between Zevran and the woman as the elf took a step forward. "I thought you didn't care."

He chuckled beneath his breath, watching as she turned and stalked away.

"She may well be correct, at least in her assessment of these Tevinter healers." Wynne shook her head. "Charity is unlike them."

"Right." Alistair turned for the gate. It opened onto a long, stone bridge, the barrier stretching in distance if not in bars. "What with the conquering of the world and all that."

"And I would not expect Loghain to tolerate such a presence, even in the name of mercy."

"Unless he were to benefit from it directly. And if these elves are truly as troublesome as they say, why offer them healing at all?" Morrigan moved past them with a sniff, starting across the bridge.

"Wow. _Wow_. You really are just a bad person."

She paused to look back at him. "I suppose I should not be surprised that you would seek to lay all the world's ills at my feet. 'Tis a wonder you have time to consider anything beyond your navel with the way that you have been pouting."

"Upset 'cause I'm ignoring you?" He forced himself to meet her eyes, willing himself not to see the dream again, not to see her…

"Most men would leap at the opportunity you have before you. But I am to blame for neither your kingship nor your impending nuptials."

"My—" Wynne and Zevran certainly seemed to be taking their time catching up. Glancing over his shoulder he pushed past her, voice dropping to a hiss. "I am _not_—"

"—Then you plan to kill her? You seem to have no other choice."

He gaped. Morrigan was watching him, weighing, her lips twisting almost imperceptibly. "Maker's breath, you're jealous!"

Something flickered behind her scowl. As he turned away, her hand closed round his wrist. So surprising that warmth, her nails scratching, pressing… Again those fingers were wrapping round, the world seeming to spin, to place her again below him, pulling him down…

Alistair jerked his arm away. "Just… shut up. Just go back to Eamon's. Leave me alone!"

"You need me."

"No, I really don't." He whirled, glaring back at Zevran and Wynne, wincing at the smirk passing between them. "Are you coming? We haven't got all day!"

Still they saw no sign of life as the sagging buildings rose ahead. The inner gate was open, old and wooden as the homes clustered to either side. He should have felt pity, shock at the state of it but there was only wonder, surprise at the loosening of his shoulders, a bemused shame that he did not turn away in disgust.

Home. The feeling was calming – alien, of course – but it was better than the alternative. Even when Morrigan stopped beside him, Alistair found himself breathing deep.

"Charming."

"Shut up."

The stones fell away beneath their feet, the road turning to packed earth, puddled by the recent rains. Doors were shut and windows boarded but there were voices round the corner ahead, the hushed murmur of a large crowd.

"Spare a coin?" He hadn't seen the elf huddled beside the path. Burying a cough behind his hand, he blinked up at them through lank and filthy hair.

"Oh. Oh, sure." Alistair dug a hand into his belt, but Morrigan grabbed his arm.

"Don't touch me!"

"If we stopped to give handouts to every miserable wretch that we passed—"

"—Right, right, you're heartless. We know."

Her lips pursed as she shook her head. "You do him no favors."

"She is right, my friend." Zevran folded his arms. "He will only take what you give him and ask for more."

"You, _you_ don't want me to help them? I mean, not at all?"

"I did not say that."

"I don't… I just…" Alistair sighed, flicking the man a sovereign.

"Good boy." Wynne, at least, smiled for him, crouching beside the elf. He squirmed at her touch but after a moment she straightened, wiping her hands on her robes. "He could do with a meal and most certainly a bath, but I sense no sign of this plague."

"That's because there isn't one." A familiar boy straightened from beneath a faded awning, moving to stand in the path.

"Oh. Hi… Soris, right?"

He scowled. "I thought it was you, but I-I didn't… What are you doing here?"

"I told you. We're here to help."

He shook his head. "Humans don't come here unless they want something."

"Right. That again."

Behind him, Morrigan sniffed. "We seek to uncover what it is that Loghain is doing so that we might use it against him."

"Oh." The boy's eyes narrowed.

Alistair looked between them with an exasperated sigh. "_And_ to help you." He ran a hand through his hair. "But... why do you say there's no plague?"

Still he glared doubtfully, but after a moment Soris shook his head. "We have sickness, sure. There's always been sickness in the alienage. They say it didn't seem any different before."

"Before?"

"Before the Tevinters came." He sighed. "I was already… where you found me when it happened, when Howe took over. When they brought _him_ – Vaughan – I thought he was only getting what he deserved. But he talked to me. He told me that we would have it worse, much, much worse. That even if they killed him he would die knowing that soon there wouldn't be an elf left in Denerim."

"But it's not a plague?"

"Not if you ask my sister. She'd chase the mages out herself if she could, says it doesn't make sense. But every time someone speaks up they disappear. We can't do anything. But you could… talk to her, I guess."

"Where is she?"

Soris nodded toward the crowd ahead. "She'll be the loudest one." He snorted. "The biggest one too."

Alistair didn't know what he had meant; only the Tevinter men stood out amongst the crowd, armored soldiers as well as mages. They seemed to be guarding a long and low building, one of them shoving aside an elf with the butt of his staff.

"Be patient. We are here to help you."

"Oh yeah? Then where are they? Let us see them!"

A few of the nearby elves cringed, shushing a woman at the back of the crowd. "Hush! You'll get us all killed!"

She turned away, folding her arms with a scowl. Seeing Alistair, she gasped. "You!"

He held up a warding hand, flinching instinctively. "Don't hit me." He should have been surprised to see her again, the girl from the gate who had thrown a bottle at his head, but somehow he found himself smiling.

"What are you—?"

But Alistair's eyes had gone wide, roaming to her expansive belly. Maker's breath, the child must be due any day. "Wow. You're really…"

She hissed, nodding for him to follow as she moved away from the crowd.

"So are you still… you know?" He tilted back his head, miming a long pull from an invisible bottle.

"Not that it's any of your business, _shem_, but no." The girl would not meet his eyes. "I… stopped. The day that you… that I…"

"Good."

Her head snapped up with a glare. But Soris was at her side now, laying a soothing hand on her arm. "This is him, Shianni. This is the one who—"

"—_This_ is him?"

Alistair shrugged. "Yeah, I get that a lot."

"He says they're here to help."

"Like that's something we haven't heard before." She scowled over her shoulder at the mages before turning her glare on the others. Zevran grinned, dropping into a flourishing bow. Shianni smirked. "Thank you. For freeing my brother."

"Don't mention it. But you said you were… there before. How did you… I mean, why were…?"

They shared a long look. Finally, Soris sighed. "The man that you killed… he-he brought guards, took…" His eyes strayed to Shianni, saw her lips press thin. "… took my sister and my cousin and my betrothed, some of the other women… We were only trying to rescue them but they killed Nelaros and they had already… already…"

Shianni put a hand on his shoulder, soothing but firm, the glare that she turned to Alistair somehow challenging, as if daring them to speak.

"They took women from the alienage? But why would they…?"

Morrigan sniffed. "You truly are an idiot."

"They took… oh." His eyes went wide, straying to the girl's belly, unable now to look anywhere else. "_Oh_."

She didn't flinch, didn't turn away, but again her eyes flashed defensive. "I did everything I could to root it out. You saw. But it just wouldn't…"

Wynne smiled. "Perhaps it is the Maker's way of—"

"—Don't. Just don't."

"Why should the child be blamed for its paternity?" It was Morrigan who spoke, ignoring Alistair's surprised glance. "Its potential is not limited by a passing bit of blood."

"It will be human."

"And as such will have more opportunity than you. Surely you see this. It need carry nothing of its father unless you will it so."

Shianni's eyes narrowed, her chin rising almost imperceptibly.

They were studying each other, Alistair realized. After a moment, he chuckled nervously. "You never knew your daddy, huh? He never bought you that pony?"

"—I assume that one was necessary for my creation, yes. But if it was so, Mother never spoke of it." Morrigan folded her arms. "There are many creatures in the Wilds who devour their mates once the act is complete. Perhaps Flemeth was the same."

"Touching." He scowled, eyes straying back to the crowd. Still the mages and their guards stood before building, but one of them seemed to be watching them now. Touching the arm of the man next to him, he nodded in their direction. "So, these Tevinter—"

"—Arrived shortly after they say Loghain returned to the city." Shianni followed his gaze. "At first I didn't understand why this was different than any other sickness. But they only seem to quarantine the strong, the particularly beautiful… and any who speak against them. Valendrian, my uncle Cyrion."

"Then why haven't they taken you?"

She snorted, gesturing to her belly. "Too much trouble, I guess."

"We need to get into that building. See what they're guarding."

Shianni quirked a brow. "You'd… do that?"

"I said we were here to help."

She looked at him sideways but two of the guards were moving toward them now, one of the mages following slowly behind.

"Oh, no."

"You do sort of stand out."

"That is where we need to go, is it?" Zevran pushed between them, leaning close.

Shianni nodded.

"And you say they take only the strong? The beautiful?"

Alistair blinked. "No. No. Absolutely not."

"Hush, my friend."

"Oh come, _on_. We both know you're not the type to—"

"—Mmm?" He turned to Shianni with a wink, falling heavy against her arm. As the guards drew closer he slumped, hair falling cross his eyes with a pitiable cough.

Stopping before them the mage scowled, clasping his hands behind his back. "And what is this?"

"I…" Alistair hesitated, hiding his wince as a kick slammed hard against his shin. Zevran nuzzled closer against Shianni's shoulder with a shaking sigh. "I… we… our friend is sick. We-we heard about the plague, thought it might be…"

The man seemed for the moment surprised, glancing back toward his companions. Bending low, he raised Zevran's chin, studying him a moment before letting his head fall. "You made the right choice, though I can say nothing until we have examined him further." He nodded to the guards with a glare for Shianni. "But it may take some time. I would not wait here if I were you. The locals can be decidedly… unpleasant."

She stuck out her tongue, stepping quickly aside as the guards took Zevran between them.

"Wait." The mage's eyes darted to Alistair. Slipping free the blades at Zevran's back, he pushed them into his arms. "Keep these. They will not be necessary."

They turned away without another word. The assassin had not flinched at being disarmed, allowing himself to be led across the square and through the guarded door. Alistair cursed beneath his breath.

"Your friend is very…" Shianni shook her head.

"Yeah, they don't exactly have a word for it."

"I take it you have a plan?"

"Other than barge in and start hitting things? Not really."

Morrigan snorted. "Finally he admits it."

"Shut up. There's – what? – three mages, half a dozen guards?"

"You are assuming there is no one inside, then? Your tactical mastery astounds."

"But we have two mages and a templar. Maybe if we…"

Wynne moved to his other side, shaking her head with a sigh. "It seems we have little choice."

Across the square, one of the mages leapt, spinning to look at the door. Something thumped hard against it, once, twice before it jerked open. A man's face was just visible in the crack – one of the guards – shouting for the others. The view inside was obscured by the crowd but a sudden scream sent the elves scattering.

"Oh, Maker's breath!"

By the time they reached the door it burst wide, sending one of the mages sprawling. The elf in the doorway hesitated, shielding his eyes before giving the man a swift kick in the stomach. More elves were pouring out now, some of them fleeing, some of them turning on the guards.

Alistair drew his blade, taking one of the mages by surprise as Wynne silenced another with a counterspell. Morrigan seemed to be laughing as she thrust her staff at another. What elves had fought beside them didn't stay as the guards fell, running off into the warren of homes without a backward glance.

Ducking through the door, Alistair let his eyes adjust to the dim. More guards had fallen here and there were pallets, yes, but an unhinged inner door revealed cages, crates, something else that he could not quite make out…

"Slavers." Zevran sat with his feet propped on a distant desk, idly flipping through a stack of papers. "With buyers in Tevinter, Antiva, Orlais…"

"How did you—?"

He chuckled, coming slow to his feet. Closing the distance, he plucked his daggers from Alistair's belt. "Did you truly think these were my only weapons?"

"Yeeeah… just don't tell me where you keep the others." He shook his head, looking to the fallen men. "So you knew that that would work?"

"Not precisely."

Alistair shook his head. "I don't understand you. Not at all."

"In that you should count yourself fortunate, my friend."

Wynne had moved across the room, pausing to scowl at the cages. "There is another door here. It seems some of them escaped this way."

Alistair quirked a brow at Zevran. "Missed a few, did you?"

"They cannot have gone far."

"Right. I suppose since we've already started killing them… And thanks for that, by the way. Very subtle."

He dropped into a shallow bow.

The door opened onto a narrow alley that ran behind the building. There were gardens here, small but well-tended, washlines laden with still-drying garments. Alistair paused. There should have been people here. A breeze stirred the clothing, the open door at the end of the alley rocking back to bump against the wall.

"Hello?" He took a hesitant step forward. His boot sunk against something soft, the doll lying discarded in the mud. There were tracks here, the heavy steps of the guards, smaller, scuffling prints.

"Whoever was here left quickly." Wynne nodded to the wash, to the overturned scrubbing pail. "And not without a struggle."

"Their operation was discovered. It would only be reasonable to take what remained of their stock." Morrigan folded her arms. "Or dispose of it."

He didn't bother to scowl at her, not this time. Alistair threw open the door. They were apartments of a sort, if they could even be called that. And there were more tracks here, muddied footprints, food left steaming on untouched tables. Maker help them if Morrigan was right.

The hallways twisted and again they were outside, catching a glance of an armored figure hurrying through a distant door. He didn't have time to wonder where they were, to see still more gardens left empty, the broken planks patching wall and window. Did people truly live this way?

Pausing, Alistair put a hand on the door. There were voices now, hurried shouts. He looked to the others with a silent nod, pushing it aside.

"Stop. Right there." He found himself with an arrow leveled at his throat, the elven woman scowling as she sighted down the shaft.

"I…" There were others in the room, humans drawing their blades. "We-we're here to rescue you."

Throwing back her head, the woman laughed. "Rescue me?" As the color flooded into Alistair's cheeks, her laugh redoubled. But she fell silent then, steadying her aim. "You're here to cause trouble. We were promised no trouble."

"You were—? You're _one of them_? But you're an elf!"

"So?" Her eyes narrowed, aim suddenly shifting to where Zevran was slipping along the shadowed wall. "I said stop."

He raised his hands with a mocking grin.

Still Alistair was shaking his head. "You're selling your own people into slavery?"

"They are not _my_ people. I am Tevinter and a servant of the Minrathous Circle."

"And you consider yourself an opportunist, yes? You tell yourself that in embracing that which cannot be changed, in profiting from it, you somehow prove yourself their better."

Alistair glanced over his shoulder at Zevran as the bow swung indecisive between them.

"I _will_ shoot you."

"Tsk." He stepped away from the wall, expression unchanging as the woman took a step back. "I should hope you would do so quickly before my friend has a chance to— Ahh, well."

It exploded behind him with a rush of air, knocking Alistair to the ground. Rolling onto his back, he muffled a scream, covering his head with his hands as the insects swarmed and dipped overhead. He was not the only one shouting, the men swinging their blades uselessly at the hundred tiny stingers.

"Morrigan!"

It bowled through two of the guards closest to him, the giant spider leaning low to bury its face in one of their necks. Alistair goggled. A spider _and_ a swarm of-of…

The elven woman let out a shriek, stumbling against him as she jerked open the door and fled into the alley. But the fluttering insects did not give chase, instead seeming to cluster together, shifting and reforming into…

"Wynne?"

The old mage fell to one knee, looking to the fallen guards with a disbelieving chuckle. It was a moment before Alistair even noticed her nakedness, glancing away as Zevran helped her to her feet. Following the elf's openly appraising gaze, Wynne gave him a chiding slap on the arm. But it was to Morrigan that she turned, shaking her head with a bemused smirk. "You were right, it seems. That was… liberating."

"Do you now agree that there is more to magic than rules and books?"

"The rules are important, child. But I will grant that the Tower should not discount so-called wild magics out of hand. There is much that we might learn from each other."

Morrigan sniffed. Alistair made the mistake of turning round, of seeing her bend to retrieve her robes. He felt his cheeks flame, willed himself to breathe deep, to turn away. Wynne was just slipping her own robes over his head. Maker's breath. Between the two of them, he was better off just shutting his eyes.

"I-I thought you were teaching her healing."

"I am. But a teacher may learn just as much from the student. And I have been waiting for an opportunity to try that one."

"To try…?"

Beside him, he could hear Zevran chuckle. "You can open your eyes now, my friend."

Slowly, suspiciously, Alistair complied. Both women were dressed now, watching him with near identical smirks.

"I thought you two hated each other."

"She is an insufferable, old hag."

"And Morrigan is not to be trusted."

"Right." Alistair shook his head. "Just so we're clear on that."

There were more doors here, leading deeper into… wherever they were now. The voices ahead seemed to have stopped, the whispers hushed and frightened. At the bottom of another set of stairs, they found themselves overlooking a wide and open room. There were cages here, the man striding between them seemingly directing the sorting of the remaining elves.

He paused, not turning round. "You have upset our operation. We were assured that we would be able to trade in peace."

"Peace? You call _this_ peace?"

The man turned round. He was a mage by his dress, a powerful one by his sneer. "It is certainly an improvement over the previous state of things, as I hear it. Denerim does a service to us and we do a service to Denerim."

"And who told you that?"

He smirked. "This, I think you know."

Morrigan shifted. "Selling your excess population into slavery. 'Tis a rather…" She trailed off, eyes straying to Alistair.

He ignored her. "So Loghain… gave you permission to take elves as slaves?"

The mage smiled, patting at something in his pockets. "But I am no fool. It is you that I should be bartering with now, is it not?"

"Bartering?"

"Come, certainly there is something I can offer you." He paced, studying them from beneath lowered brows. "If you were to let me and my associates go… I can provide evidence of your Teryn Loghain's complicity."

"You would… do that?"

"We would take the remaining elves, of course."

"No deal."

He seemed surprised at the harshness of the words. "Something more… personal then? You are a warrior of some renown, it seems. I can offer… augmentation. Power in exchange for my freedom."

"And the elves?"

"A necessary sacrifice. It is their blood that will fuel you."

"Blood magic now?" Folding his arms, Alistair smirked. "Wow. You really don't know who you're talking to, do you?"

"You know, my friend…" Zevran leaned close. "…if he truly does have this evidence of which he speaks, it may be easier to find if—"

"—We search his corpse?" Alistair sighed. "Yeah, I was afraid of that."

The man drew the staff from over his shoulder. "You have made your choice, then?"

"I don't think I really had one." He glanced back at Wynne and Morrigan. "Do you think we could do this with our clothes on this time?"

Wynne smirked. "I can promise nothing."

Leaping the railing to the room's lower levels, Alistair saw the air around the Tevinter mage begin to thicken. It seemed to burst outward from him, the force of it lifting Alistair from his feet. He could feel himself, twisting, contorting, the breath seemingly sucked from his chest in a shower of sparks. Pain, yes, but suddenly he was recalling the dream. This had been nothing, nothing to that.

Gritting his teeth, he twisted his head. A familiar figure shimmered there, just beside the nearest of the cages, looking from him to the bars with an impatient smirk. Suspended still, he cast about for the others, saw only Morrigan.

"Morrigan! The… locks!"

Surprise flickered there for only a moment before she turned away, setting a nearby guard aflame with an offhand gesture. Stopping beside the cage, she channeled a thin stream of cold at the lock before shattering it with a blow from the staff.

Alistair vaguely registered the gasp from the elves inside, the sneer behind her words. "Are you as useless as they say? Are you going to let others win your freedom for you?"

They did not hesitate, disarming the fallen guards and turning on the others. Alistair watched an old man draw a hidden dagger from his belt, leading the others in a ragged charge. He fell, then; he hadn't even see the Tevinter mage stumble.

He knelt now with one of Zevran's boots braced against his back, neck straining as the elf's dagger pressed against his throat.

"You, you then!" The man gasped. "The promised power… and more! One hundred gold, two hundred! Name your price!"

Zevran's eyes narrowed, watching the other elves as his lips twisted. Maker's breath, he was actually considering it, actually—

Before Alistair could take a step forward he jerked backward, blade slicing clean across the mage's throat. He fell heavy, flopping into an already spreading pool of wet. Zevran rolled him over without flinching, making quick work of checking his pockets. There were papers there, documents. Straightening, he tossed them at Alistair's feet.

The old elf was beside them now. "Thank you. I don't know who you are, but thank you." He sighed. "But let us not linger here any longer."

* * *

The hall somehow opened back onto the square, abandoned now but for the great and spreading oak. Zevran stood beneath it, staring up at the leaves. But as Alistair turned to speak, he crashed hard against a slight and hurrying figure.

"Soris?"

The elf blinked up at him, arms laden with linens, his eyes darting quick and panicked.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"Shi-Shianni… just after you left she…"

He turned, darting between the houses. With a glance for the others, Alistair hurried behind. The boy made no move to stop them as they followed him into the cramped and narrow home. There were others here, women and men, the old elf from the cages still panting as he pushed through the door behind.

It was to the bed that he moved, the others giving it a wide berth. Alistair noticed the looks then, troubled and scowling and afraid. But there was another figure there, kneeling beside the bed. He truly studied her now, the flowers in her hair, how beautiful the dress would have been if not for the blood. Raising her eyes to his, the spirit smiled.

"I thought about what your friend said, you know." Shianni shifted beneath the blankets, not taking her eyes from the child curled against her breast. Running a finger along the babe's soft and rounded ear, she chuckled. "It's not her fault. She deserves better. The best."

Alistair blinked, looking still to the vision wavering beside them. "What-what are you going to call her?"

Shianni smiled. "Kallian."

* * *

"Are you sure this is the right way?" Alistair stopped, glancing up at the buildings looming to either side. They had left the alienage, though not by the bridge. He couldn't say where they were now.

"'Twas your idea to come this way. Can you not even find your way on a road?"

He flushed, avoiding Morrigan's eyes. "I-I was thinking it would be a shortcut."

"And apparently the effort overtaxed you. But the market is to the north, is it not?"

Falling into step beside Alistair, Zevran chuckled. He had been strangely quiet since the cages, but the mocking needed no words as he quirked a brow and grinned in Morrigan's direction.

"Shut up."

"I said nothing, my friend. But I do so enjoy your delicious banter."

Alistair sighed, looking again to the walls. "I don't like this. It seems like a perfect place for—"

"—An ambush? Well, aren't you a clever one." A man appeared on the stairs ahead, folding his arms with a chuckle. There were others, he saw, moving behind him, slipping from the shadows to either side.

Zevran cursed.

"Tsk." The man grinned. "And here I thought you'd be happy to see me."

"Taliesin."

"So this is him then? The Grey Warden who finally ensnared the great Zevran?" For some reason Alistair felt himself flushing beneath that gaze." This I had to see for myself."

"Wait. Is he implying what I—?"

Zevran ignored him, taking half a step forward. "What do you want, Taliesin?"

"I was sent here to kill you. Obviously. But it does seem a waste. Why not come back with us? Finish what you started, of course." He smirked at Morrigan and Wynne. "Should be easy enough. I'll even help. You know I always do."

Zevran winced visibly at that, an almost imperceptible flush creeping along his cheeks. Alistair remembered now why the man's name was familiar. He had drawn the tale from the elf with difficulty… the woman he had loved, the mistaken betrayal… the man that he had told to kill her as he turned his back and walked away.

"I know why you left, Zev. Come back with us."

"I think not, my friend." He sighed. "Have you heard nothing of the Blight?"

"Ahh, Zevran. Always so noble." The voice was soft, moving from the shadows behind them in a whisper of slithering leathers.

Zevran stiffened, the breath catching in his throat as he pinched shut his eyes. He did not turn around.

The woman paused, smiling for Alistair. Slight and elven, her hair hung long and loose and dark, her wide black eyes startling against the paleness of her skin. Moving past them, she slid a hand up and over Zevran's shoulder, squeezing as he flinched. She continued up the stairs without a backward glance.

Slowly Zevran raised his eyes, expression unreadable. "You said that you killed her."

Taliesin shrugged. "What can I say? She begged. And she was _very_ convincing." He slipped an arm round the woman's waist, not noticing her scowl. "So I take it you're coming back with us then? I mean, unless she wants to kill you. I'd want to, if I were her."

"No." The woman shook her head, smile pulling into a crooked smirk. It was long that she looked down at them, chuckling in bemused disbelief. "Zevran..."

The breath seemed to leave him, shoulders hunching as he sagged. As he took a step forward, Alistair lay a hand on his arm. "What are you—?"

He shook him off, refusing to meet his eyes as he started up the stairs.

Morrigan scowled. "Had you only killed him when you had the—"

"—Shut up."

Zevran paused there, a few steps below the woman, unable to break that gaze. She took a hesitant step but his hand closed round her wrist, pulling her to him, crushing her against his chest as he covered her mouth with his. Pulling back, he lay a hand against her cheek. "Rinna."

She smiled up at him, running her tongue across her teeth.

Zevran's hands moved slow for his daggers, the hiss echoing as the other Crows drew theirs. Still not breaking the woman's gaze, he raised his voice. "Go, my friend. I will buy you what time I can."


	31. Behind Closed Doors

"No! No, we have to go back!" Alistair whirled, pulling against the hands that held him, looking up at the walls that rose between them and the still echoing shouts. There had been one, two – was that a third? But the clash of blades was faint now. They had run, run and not even tried to…

Morrigan's nails dug hard into his arm. He barely registered the sting, did not bother to recoil. It was only when he jerked free, heard Wynne's hiss of pain that Alistair turned round.

"Oh, Maker's— I'm sorry."

She cradled her hand with a sigh, a faint glow of healing blooming round her wrist.

"An oaf and a fool." Morrigan sneered. "'Twould seem you would kill us yourself if you had the chance."

"I am fine." Wynne flexed her fingers as the light faded, glaring at the younger woman. "But we should not linger here."

"How can you say that?"

It was slow that she raised her eyes to Alistair's. "If the Crows are indeed still hunting you, we must get out of the open."

"_Everyone's_ hunting us. And we-we can't just _leave_. Not just because he told us to."

"I do not relish the decision. It was rash, foolish. But he made his choice; you allowed him that. Perhaps that is what's important."

"Right." He shook his head, turning back the way they had come. "But when… when you… you came back, didn't you?"

Moving to stand beside him, Wynne lay a hand on his arm. "Alistair…"

"You know what? No. We're going back." Unsheathing his sword, he looked to Morrigan.

She had fallen silent, eyes holding still to the walls, lips pursing as her brows drew low. They could no longer hear the fighting. "It is too late."

"No. No, I'm not going to—"

It whistled on the air between them, the bolt slamming quivering into the door of a nearby home. Alistair staggered backward, a second shot just grazing his cheek. They were coming from somewhere above and behind them, but closer now, a grunting curse echoing as the bowman fired wide. Alistair swung his shield round, trying to catch some glimpse, but Wynne had cast a shield of her own, the thickening air obscuring his vision.

Again Morrigan was beside him, pulling insistent. "Do you still wish to charge headlong to your death?"

"And here I was thinking that's what I'd been doing all along."

* * *

He did not protest as they dragged him back to the shelter of Eamon's estate, did not speak again until the doors had slammed shut behind them.

"I'm through hiding."

Morrigan sneered. Whatever semblance of human emotion had taken her in the alley seemed to have vanished. "Stop being such a sullen child."

"We'll gather the others. We'll go back. I'm not a—"

"Coward? 'Tis easy to be brave when it is others who will take the blow for you."

He spun with a growl, palms bracing against her shoulders as he slammed her back against the wall. Her breath caught, gasping ragged, but her eyes flashed triumphant. Tilting her head to look up at him, Morrigan smiled.

"Alistair!"

They found them like that, Eamon appearing from the inner hall, Leliana and Sten pausing in the door to the courtyard.

"What is going on here?"

He made as if to turn away, but Morrigan's hand snaked high, one finger trailing lingeringly along the gash in his cheek as she pressed close. It left a cooling itch in its wake, the flesh knitting beneath her touch. Alistair shoved her back with a snort of disgust.

Oghren pushed between Leliana and Sten. "Eh? What'd I miss?"

"Alistair?" Leliana stepped forward.

He could feel the weight of her gaze, was certain she had seen it, the fading strains of the dream. She would die, they all would die but somehow Morrigan would—

"Alistair… where is Zevran?"

He shook his head.

"We had an unfortunate encounter with a group of Antivan Crows. The experience seems to have rendered our leader even more dumb than usual."

Leliana gaped at Morrigan. "He—?"

"Stayed behind and bid us flee. An apparently noble act, if a foolish one."

"Of all the stupid, nug-brained…" Oghren trailed off, slipping his flask from his belt to take a long pull.

Alistair raised his eyes. "We don't know that he's dead."

"What was it? One against twelve? Thirteen? 'Tis hardly a—"

"It could have been you, you know." He whirled on Morrigan. "In fact, I wish it had been. But why is it that the only one you seem unwilling to risk is yourself? Or me, for some strange reason."

"I merely…" She took a step back, folding her arms. "I… You do not have to die."

The words of the dream echoed like a slap across the face. He turned away, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Go. Just go. I don't care where. Just… stop talking and go away."

After a moment he could hear her footsteps fading in the hall, their echo deliberate and unhurried. The others were watching him but he could not bring himself to meet their eyes.

"If Loghain wants me dead, let's just… let's just get this over with."

"An inspired strategy. The man will tremble." Sten's lips twitched as Alistair raised his head.

"You'd rather have me keep hiding under the Arl's skirts?"

The lines of his smirk deepened. "No."

Eamon looked between them with a curious expression. "While I may not have… skirts, I agree that we can no longer delay. Did you find anything in the alienage?"

He had almost forgotten. Reaching into his belt, Alistair dropped the papers into his outstretched palm. "Loghain was selling elves to Tevinter slavers."

The old man's eyes widened as he read, a small smile forming as he stroked his beard. "Oh, my. Yes, this will—"

"I'm glad someone's happy about it."

"Ah, Alistair. I did not mean—"

"No. No, we can use it. That's what's important, right?" The words came harsh, too harsh. He sagged. "I'm sorry. I just… we'll bring him to justice, won't we? For this, for everything."

"We will." Eamon nodded. "The Landsmeet will convene tomorrow. What is important now is that you are safe."

"It's not all about me, you know. Or at least it's not… supposed to be."

The Arl shook his head with a heavy sigh. "You are all that we have." He looked to the others. "Take some time. But I would speak with you before you sleep. We have much to discuss."

"Right." Alistair could feel Eamon's eyes on him as he turned and moved slowly for the nearest room. It would be the library if he remembered correctly, but he wasn't seeing, not really.

As the door swung inward, there was a muffled gasp. Anora straightened with an imperious glare, smoothing her skirts in feigned innocence.

"Hear anything interesting?" He pushed past her.

"I… I am sorry about your friend."

Alistair paused, not turning round. "What do you want?"

She seemed to be choosing her words carefully, perhaps waiting for him to look at her. With an exasperated sigh, she stepped round to face him. "Eamon thought it would be best if you and I spoke. Before the Landsmeet."

Alistair blinked. "Wait… _Eamon_ thought?"

Her lips twitched into something like a smile. "Perhaps not. He has his suspicious about me and I of him, but it is you who makes me uncertain."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Do not be petulant. I did not mean offense. But you must understand that I am not used to dealing with…" Her eyes narrowed as she looked up at him, the wondering shake of her head almost imperceptible.

"I'm guessing you're not about to tell me how dashingly handsome I am?"

She took a step back, her scowl returning. "Whether or not you resemble my late husband, I don't think that—"

"—Whoa, whoa!" He held up his hands in mock surrender. "It was a joke."

"A joke." Those eyes were like ice. How Cailan could have… how anyone could stand… She was watching him, he realized, and he her.

Running a hand through his hair, Alistair turned away. "I didn't say it was a funny one."

Her expression did not change.

"Look, I don't think we should be talk—"

"What do you intend to do? Tomorrow?"

"Oh, Eamon's going to ask me to make a speech, isn't he? I knew it. Just when I thought it couldn't get any—"

Anora quirked a brow. "This is another joke, I hope."

"See? There's no fooling you." His smile faltered. "I don't know. I really don't."

"You do see that this is a problem?" She began pacing amongst the shelves, leaving him no choice but to follow. "Eamon assures me that you will both support my claim, that you will merely present enough evidence to see my father overruled."

"I don't want the throne. I've never wanted it."

"And I am glad to hear it. You have accomplished a great deal, but I do not believe that blood begets ability. No more than I believe that my sex denies it to me."

"Agreed."

She stopped, turning to look up at him. There was surprise there, fading quick as she stilled her features. "Thank you."

Alistair felt himself flush, turning his face away.

"My concern is your intentions toward my father once the matter is settled. Despite his crimes—"

His eyes snapped to hers. "You're kidding, right? Tell me you're kidding."

"I believe that is your purview."

"What are my _intentions_? Toward the man who killed the Wardens? The King? The man who betrayed all of Ferelden?"

Anora flinched, but took a deliberate step forward, forcing him to step back. "I do not deny that he must be punished. Loss of title, perhaps exile—"

"He killed your husband and you just want to let him _walk away_?"

She blinked at that, shaking her head slowly. "He is my father."

"And he killed mine. Or did they not tell you that?"

"Maric was—"

"Not Maric. Not some king I never met." He loomed over her now. "You're right. I don't care about blood. _The Wardens_ were my family. The only family I ever had."

"I—"

"It's not an option. It's not negotiable, not open for discussion. Keep your throne. But Loghain will get what he deserves."

Anora tilted her chin to look up at him, lips pressing thin as she nodded. "I understand."

"Do you?" He sighed, something in her eyes stirring sudden guilt. He pushed it aside.

"I… did not think anything would come of speaking to you. It did not seem… right. But you are more decisive than I gave you credit for. Stronger."

"That's me. Always underestimated."

"Cailan showed the same spirit. He was unwavering when he set his mind to something. It was not a bad quality to have… in a king."

"Aw, are you proposing?"

There was almost a chuckle behind her sniff. "Your friend certainly had some interesting ideas."

"Yeah, and look where it got him."

Anora sighed, turning for the door.

"Why did you tell me that? About Cailan?"

Glancing over her shoulder, she almost smiled. "You would deny your blood. Perhaps I merely wanted to show you that it is more worthy than you think." Her eyes darkened. "But, as you said, look where it got him."

Alistair watched her go, following only after he could be certain she was gone. Great. The Landsmeet. He found himself thinking of them again, those ghosts or spirits or whatever they were. This should be about the time one of them appeared, told him what to do. He found himself casting about as he moved through the halls, searching for something, anything. But there was nothing. He was alone.

Somehow, he had expected as much. The wrongness swelled, the feeling suddenly overwhelming. He couldn't do this.

"Alistair."

He had come to Eamon's study without realizing it, shook himself as he watched the old man rise from his desk.

"Come in. We have much to discuss."

"I… I don't think this is a good idea."

He smiled with a knowing shake of his head, ushering him through the door as he pulled it closed. "The nervousness will pass. Believe it or not, this is what you were born to do."

"You don't believe that. I don't believe that."

"We _must_ believe it. Look at all that you have accomplished. All of it has brought you here."

"But it… it's not right. It's never been right. Tell me you don't feel it!"

For a moment he looked surprised, sinking into his seat with a sigh. "Would you rather I support Loghain? You said it yourself: Ferelden must be united against the Blight."

"Yes, but… you still want to make me _king_? Even though you told Anora you'd—?"

"Anora is Loghain's daughter."

"But she's also practical. And a good queen. She knows what he did was wrong. She can be persuaded!"

His eyes narrowed. "What do you know of Anora?"

"I…" Alistair shrugged. He could not say why, but admitting that they had spoken suddenly seemed like a bad idea. "Just a guess, really.

"And a hasty one. Trust me when I say that Anora will not let any harm come to her father." Eamon stood suddenly, moving round the desk to stand before him. "But you must _not_ attack Loghain directly. Ostagar was… unfortunate, but we have no proof. I have reached out to the families of those that Howe imprisoned. We have their support, the evidence of his involvement with the slavers. These are our weapons."

Alistair gaped. "But they… they need to know what he did! About Cailan! The Wardens!"

"And perhaps they will. In time. But if you pit your reputation against Loghain's, you will lose."

"I…" He blinked, shaking his head.

"Alistair, can you do this?"

"You want me to be civil? You want me to stand there and look that-that man in the eyes and _smile_?"

"Of course not. Plead our case. Bring him down. And then once you are king…" He let the word hang, the promise left unuttered.

"And this is the only way? You're certain?"

"Unless you can think of another."

"I… no." His shoulders sagged. "Maker's breath, I can't."

"Then this is our course." Eamon clasped his hands behind his back. "Now. We cannot be seen as hostile; you cannot bring an army into the Landsmeet chambers. Choose only a few of your companions. I will go ahead of you to make certain—"

"Right. Got it." Alistair sighed defeated. "You'll be there. We've got Anora and the nobles and… right. We'll be fine. But, if there's nothing else… I'd really like some sleep."

"There is one thing, actually." The old man chuckled. "You may want to shave."

* * *

Alistair paused before a darkened window in the hall, stroking a hand across his chin as he blinked at his reflection. They had eaten better since coming to Denerim, that much was certain, but still his eyes were shadowed, his mouth seeming too wide against his hollowed cheeks. The patch of beard made it somehow less startling, but Eamon wanted that gone as well. He probably just wanted him to look more like Cailan.

Reaching his rooms, he pushed aside the door. Despite himself, he grinned to see her there, the relief sudden and warming. Leliana, too, had been studying herself, pulling back her hair as she stood before the mirror.

"I've never seen you with your hair up. It looks nice."

She smiled for him without turning round, tilting her head from side to side to examine her scars. With a sigh she pulled the ribbon free, letting the strands fall again across her face.

"Hey." He slipped behind her, wrapping an arm round her waist, but Leliana moved away, sinking onto the edge of the bed.

"Alistair…"

He sat beside her, watched that smile turn sad as she looked up at him. After a long moment she seemed to come to some decision, pulling him close to rest his head against her shoulder. He sagged there, exhaling in a shuddering gasp.

"Hush. Hush, now."

"I—"

"Hush." She lay a kiss on his forehead, stroking her fingers through his hair.

He sat suddenly, pulling back to look at her. "I… I should tell you what happened. I didn't tell anyone what happened."

"Wynne did. While you were…"

"With Eamon." He couldn't help but notice her relief. "But… I was thinking. She told you about the girl, right? The Crow?"

Leliana nodded.

"She was his… he… loved her, I think. He told me. And he thought she was dead. But maybe… maybe she sided with him; maybe they fought their way out. Maybe they got away." His raised his eyes to hers.

Her lips twitched, but there was pity behind the smile. "It would make a beautiful story. Perhaps you should have been a bard."

"Just a story. Right. Nevermind. I'm a fool."

"It is never foolish to have hope." She lay a hand over his, but now it was she who would not meet his gaze.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

Leliana shook her head. "Tomorrow. What will you do?"

"Why does everyone expect me to know? I can't just—"

"Alistair." She sighed. "Tomorrow you will be crowned king, no?"

"That seems to be the plan."

"But first you must go before these nobles and plead your case. You will face your betrayer, lay bare his crimes and submit yourself for judgment with only the righteousness of your cause to stand upon."

"See? You're definitely the better bard. And I wasn't nervous at all before, so thanks for that."

She did not laugh for him, lifting her head with shadowed eyes. "I will be with you, of course. But I cannot stand beside you."

"Wait, what?"

"Alistair, I am _Orlesian_. You know what your Loghain has been saying; you how this will look."

"So? Isolde's Orlesian and she's Eamon's… oh. _Oh._"

There was almost a chuckle behind her sigh, a stiffness as he slid closer and wrapped an arm round her shoulders. "I am not of noble birth. I am a bard; I have… done more than I have told you. And I am…" Her fingers shook her they moved to her cheek, pushing aside her fallen hair.

"I don't care what they think."

"But you do. You care about everyone." Finally, the smile reached her eyes. "It is a good thing."

Alistair sank back, sliding cross the bed to collapse against the pillows. "I don't believe you're breaking up with me."

She lay beside him, propping herself on an elbow. If this is really what she wanted, she wouldn't bee looking at him, not like that. All because he was going to be king, all because of what had to be done, always what had to be done.

Watching him scowl, she shook her head. "We should have known this would happen, no? You feel it to, do you not?"

"Feel what?"

"It is… good, wonderful. But it is not truly… right."

He should be angry, should protest, tell her she was imagining it, but Alistair only sighed, tilting his head to look up at her. "Everything feels like that. I thought it was just… how the world is."

"I cannot believe that."

"So that's hope, then? Funny, it doesn't feel like it."

"Alistair…" Laying beside him now, she pillowed her head on her arm.

"I can't do this alone."

"You will not have to. What we do here is bigger than us both; it may truly be the Maker's work. I will stand by you to the end."

He blinked at that. She hadn't spoken of the Maker for some time. He had assumed that the vision was still too painful and after what they had seen, what she had been through…

"What?"

He was smiling, he realized. Cupping a hand against her cheek, he slid closer. "It's not the end yet. I mean, I'm sure they'll be plenty of blood and death and Loghain might have us all hanged tomorrow but maybe we can just… pretend a little bit longer?"

Leliana shook her head, trying to hide the beginnings of bemused smirk. With a sigh, she curled against him, pressing her lips to his.

* * *

They had fallen tangled and exhausted but Alistair lay awake, staring at the darkened ceiling. So many thoughts, too many. He slid carefully from the bed, fluffing a pillow to slip beneath her outstretched arm. Leliana stirred, curling tighter round it as she chewed her lip. He turned away with a quiet sigh.

The rumble of his stomach was sudden, loud in the silence. Maker, he couldn't remember the last time he had eaten. Tugging on his breeches, Alistair slipped into the hall and made for the kitchens.

He hadn't yet reached the door when one of the scullery girls flung it wide, hurrying past him with a glare. Great. What had he done now? A rumbling laugh echoed from within, the answer suddenly clear.

Oghren swung his legs beneath the table, waggling a finger at Sten as he passed a large but mostly empty bottle between them. "…that's what I was… I was… what was I sayin'?"

The Qunari quirked a brow, scowling as he refilled his mug. "I was trying not to listen."

They noticed Alistair then, sharing a smirk as he sank onto the bench beside Sten.

"Wait, _you're_ drinking?"

The big man snorted, almost tipping the bottle as he set it down.

"Wow." Alistair chuckled but it was short-lived, fading into a heavy sigh.

"Heh. Women'll do that to ya."

He raised his eyes to Oghren's. "I feel like such a fool."

"Just so happens we're drinking to fools." With a nod, he slid the bottle cross the table. Even Sten gave a solemn grunt.

Alistair turned it in his hands, hanging his head. "I never get to be drunk."

"There's a first time for everything, boy."

"But Eamon… the Landsmeet… I-I have to…"

"Sure ya do. You always 'have to.' But maybe, just this once…"

Alistair looked up to see the dwarf raising his mug with a grin.

"…Sod it."


	32. The Landsmeet

Alistair stood staring up at the palace doors. Eamon had almost made it sound like a homecoming but finally being here, now, he'd rather be anywhere else. Maybe he still had time to run. He could hide in Fort Drakon, the Wilds, the Deep Roads; suddenly they didn't sound so bad.

"Eh? You alright there?" Oghren grinned up at him.

Maker, but his head hurt. The glare reflecting off of the doors was blinding. There were gilded kings carved there, nameless ancestors, and he could not even bring himself to look at them. Pushing past the dwarf, Alistair bent double, retching in the bushes beside the palace steps.

Right. Very kingly.

Oghren patted him on the back with a chuckle.

"I am… never… listening to you… again."

"Heh. It's good for ya. Just need more practice."

Alistair straightened, wiping a hand across his mouth as he looked to Wynne.

She sighed exasperated, fishing in her pouches and tossing him a small vial. "Do try to use your head next time."

"Nah, this ain't the time for heads. Ya need sterner stuff than that." Oghren snorted as Alistair drained the potion. "And healing's not fair."

"Oh really?"

"Ya ain't nervous anymore, are ya?"

"No, I'm sick. Maybe I'll vomit on Loghain's boots. That'll show him."

"Now yer talkin'!"

Alistair turned away with a sigh, pushing through the heavy doors. Though neither of them could speak officially, Wynne had come to represent the Circle and Oghren Orzammar. Shale… well, Shale had come to look large and threatening.

The Golem snorted as they stepped into the foyer. "It does look particularly delicate today. But if It asks me to carry It again I shall be more than happy to put It out of Its misery."

"I'm fine."

"Are you?" The words rang harsh, the woman standing before the inner doors folding her arms with a glare. It was the soldier from Howe's estate, the one who had followed Loghain to the city gates. "I have seen dead men with better color."

"Oh. Hi. Nice to see you again." Alistair smirked. Eamon, _had_ told him to be polite. "We haven't officially met, what with the you trying to kill me and all."

"Be silent, churl." The woman stalked closer, letting them see the overlarge blade shifting against her back. "I am Ser Cauthrien, second to Teryn Loghain. And you… _you_ are what Eamon would use to supplant my lord? You look like something that crawled out from beneath the Pearl."

"Maybe I did. But I'm over it now. I'm here. I'm… ready."

"If you were truly worthy of being called Maric's son, you would already _be_ in the Landsmeet."

"What does that even mean?" He quirked a brow. "Should I have arrived early? Taken roll?"

Cauthrien scowled.

"You do know what he did, right? With Howe? The slavers?"

"We are _at war_." Her eyes blazed. "What would a boy know of it? Of dealing with traitors? Of arming men with empty coffers? My lord did only what he must. By your very questions you prove yourself unable to do the same."

"And what about Ostagar?"

The words were barely above a whisper and yet she flinched, her lips pressing thin.

"You were there." The memory came to him suddenly. "I saw you there."

"I was."

"Then how can you justify it? How can you possibly?"

"My lord serves the interests of _Ferelden_. He saved _lives_ that day, more than you know."

Wynne stepped forward. "Despite the fact that you care for him, surely you must see that—"

"Just because I am a woman, you assume that I am some sort of besotted fool?"

"I assume because of your _eyes_. There is devotion there. Rarely have I seen it more blind."

Her gaze swung between Alistair and the old mage, flickering briefly to Oghren and Shale. He could not be sure if she was ready to flee or drawn on them, but Alistair stepped forward, forcing her to look up at him. "He abandoned his king after the battle was already joined. Whatever his intentions, the act alone is treason."

Cauthrien met his gaze with folded arms, her expression hardening. They moved amongst the shadowed columns of the foyer, more of Loghain's soldiers, perhaps the same men that had bested them before. And yet they watched her, waiting for the order.

Oghren shifted behind him, hands twitching impatient toward his axe. "Watch her, boy. She's got something to prove, that one."

The moment held, silent but for the creak of leather, the hiss of unsheathed steel. Cauthrien sighed. "Let the Landsmeet decide."

Alistair sagged. "Thank you."

"But know that they will see the truth of my lord's actions. Once you have your validation, I suggest that you take it and leave."

"Right. I'm sure we'll find out one way or another." Turning back to the outer doors, he waved. "Come on. Let's go."

Leliana offered him a small smile as she stepped across the threshold, Morrigan glaring round at the guards with an indignant sniff. At the sight of Sten they stiffened visibly, looking again to Cauthrien.

The big man smirked as they came to stand beside Wynne, Oghren and Shale. "I do not think we were expected."

"You know, I really don't care."

Cauthrien gaped after them as Alistair led the companions toward the inner doors. He paused there, glancing back at her with a grin.

Beyond the doors the Landsmeet chamber stretched long, rising to the throne on its dais at the room's end, lined to either side with the low balconies of the Banns and Arls. Eamon was already mounting the narrow steps to his place, eyes widening at their entrance. His gaze roamed across the party, hardening as it returned to Alistair.

"I thought I told you to bring only—"

"Yeah. I'm done with that."

"This-this could be seen as an attack."

"Well, it's not." He squared his shoulders. "They've come with me this far. They _deserve_ to be here. Every one of them."

The old man leaned close, his voice dropping to a hiss. "Maker's breath, Alistair! Are you _drunk_?"

"No. Well, not anymore."

Wynne lay a hand on Alistair's shoulder, dropping a sprinkle of crushed herbs into his palm.

"What's this? For courage?"

She arched a brow. "For your breath."

"Oh, right. Thanks."

Eamon was practically spluttering into his beard. "Alistair! This is serious!"

"I _am_ serious. I've never been more serious."

"Listen to me. You cannot—"

"Perhaps you should let him speak for himself, Eamon." Loghain had his back to them, turning slowly from where he stood staring up at the throne. "Or do you fear to let the puppet off of the strings?"

"I'm right here, you know." Alistair stepped forward, leaving Eamon to gape after him as he strode into the center of the room. "You can talk to me. Unless you're afraid to look me in the eye."

Throwing back his head, Loghain laughed. He raised his voice, addressing all the Landsmeet. "And what accusations do you make, boy? What could the last of the Grey Wardens, the _betrayers_ of King Cailan, have to say in his defense?"

Murmurs swept the balconies. Alistair could feel Eamon's eyes upon him as he took his place. "The Wardens are not on trial here."

"No Eamon, they are not. But all know of your purpose. Do you truly wish to continue this farce? Do you truly expect the good people of Ferelden to accept this nameless drunkard as their king?"

"Maker, it was just the one time." The words were muttered, but Loghain turned back to Alistair with a sneer.

"He is Maric's son, as you well know."

"Is he? And that makes him fit to lead?" He was pacing now. "After what I saw of the Wardens at Ostagar…"

Alistair took a step forward, squaring his shoulders. "Yes, let's talk about _Ostagar_."

"Alistair…" Eamon shook his head, the warning clear.

"Let's talk about how you abandoned the king, how you left the Wardens to die."

"Alistair!"

"No!" He turned to the balconies. "No. I'm through with everyone talking over me, about me, deciding what's best. 'Do this, do that.'" Flushing, he took in the other watching faces. "You deserve to know the truth."

Leliana moved to stand behind him, lowering her voice. "Tread carefully. You do not want to sound like—"

"A mewling child? Spinning tales to excuse his crimes?" Loghain's eyes flashed triumphant. "See that he is already in bed with Orlesian spies!"

"Well, actually…"

Leliana sighed.

"But tell us, Warden. Do you deny that you persuaded King Cailan to allow Orlesian forces onto our lands? That you flamed rumors of a Blight to force him to reckless action?"

"This _is_ a Blight! Why does no one see that?"

"There are enough refugees in my Bannorn to make that abundantly clear." Alistair glanced toward the balconies, offering the woman who had spoken a grateful smile.

Loghain sneered. "But what proof can you offer, Warden?"

"The Grey Wardens _are_ the proof! We-we can sense it! That's why you need us!"

"A convenient coincidence, I am sure." He nodded to the watching nobles. "You would have us march to war on nothing but your _word_. A word that cost our king his life."

"No, his life was lost when _you_ turned your back on him! When you left them all to die!" He had stepped forward, he realized, meeting the man glare for glare.

"It is unfortunate that Cailan was already lost to your madness. What I did saved lives."

"So you don't even deny it?"

"That I chose to protect Ferelden from the _real_ threat? To salvage something of our forces despite the damage already done? No, I do not deny it."

Alistair's eyes narrowed. "Unless it's what you planned all along."

He held his gaze for a long moment, testing, weighing. Slowly, Loghain smiled. "You bring accusations of treason now. A serious charge."

The whispers in the balconies grew harsh. Someone laughed.

It was Morrigan who stood beside him now, her voice dropping to a hiss. "Try another tactic before you get us all killed."

"I—"

"Then let us speak of treason. What of my daughter, Warden? Ser Cauthrien thwarted your first attempt to kidnap her from Arl Howe's estate." He nodded to the woman as she took her place beside the dais. "On the day of his death, if you will recall. But where is she now? Where is our queen?"

"I believe I can speak for myself." Anora appeared in the door behind them, moving slowly past Alistair and the others, ignoring the startled gasps of those assembled.

Alistair sagged in relief.

Standing between them now, Anora tilted her chin to look up at him. "The Warden has been holding me captive at Arl Eamon's estate."

"Oh, bloody—!" Alistair put a hand to his head. "You know what? No. Why am I even surprised?"

"_The Warden_ would have us rush headlong against this threat, _unwavering_, _unthinking_." The words were pointed, directed at Alistair even as she addressed the assembly. She may have meant it as an explanation, her gaze sharpening as she tried to catch his eyes. "But _my father_ has lead us in war before, has always done what is best for Ferelden."

"Does that include selling elves from the alienage – _Fereldan citizens_ – into slavery? Allowing Arl Howe to imprison and torture any who spoke against him?"

Behind him, Sten snorted. "Finally."

Loghain, though, stood stiff and proud, his voice resonating through the room. "And what do you know of war? Did you think it would be pleasant? That victories are won with righteousness?"

From the corner of his eye, Alistair could see Cauthrien smile as she watched him speak.

"Victories are won with blood. Sacrifice. That is the truth that you fail to see."

"I want to hear you say it."

"Say what?" He clasped his hands behind his back. "That our men are armed and our focus certain? That our efforts are not spent blindly chasing a faceless threat? A price has been paid, yes, but I say that we are the better for it. And _I_ am the one that will lead us through, the only one who can."

"So you killed—"

"Alistair!" It was Anora who shushed him now.

"What? You _know_ what he did."

She stiffened, a smaller shadow of the man at her side, but just as certain, just as proud.

"Fine. Just… fine." Pulling the slaver's records from his belt, he held them over his head and turned to face the Landsmeet. "I have here documents specifically outlining Teryn Loghain's agreement with a Tevinter slave trader named Caladrius. For all his talk of foreign threats, this man was selling his own people – from right here in Denerim – one at a time."

He barely heard the murmurs, handing the pages up to one of the men in the balcony. Another man moved to his side, reading over his shoulder. "The elves have always been… restless."

"Wouldn't you be if your wife, your children could be taken from you at any time?" Alistair did not see the man flinch; there wasn't time for that now. He turned to the other side of the hall. "I have seen first hand the horrors suffered at the hands of Rendon Howe, the man named Arl of Denerim under Teryn Loghain. How many of you have lost loved ones, known someone who simply disappeared after Loghain came to power? I know that Arl Eamon has spoken with some of you, has told you what we found beneath Howe's estate."

"My brother!" One of the women scowled, eyes like daggers for Loghain. "They took my brother and all I have left is his ring." It swung from a chain round her neck, slipping from her tunic as she leaned low across the rail.

"And what of my son, Loghain?" Another man stepped forward. "Are we truly to believe that you were unaware of the actions of one of your lieutenants? The sniveling hound was ever at your heals. Either you are as guilty as he or too blind to control your own men. And what of Vaughan, Urien's son and the true Arl of Denerim?"

Alistair did not break stride, turning at last to face Loghain. "And the Couslands of Highever? Slaughtered in their own home? Their last son, Fergus, would be here today if your men had not killed him. How badly he wanted to be here, how badly he wanted to let these people know the truth!"

Still Loghain's shoulders were thrown back, his chin raised. They were standing in much the same position, he realized, mirror images at opposite ends of the hall. Maybe he could play their game but he would never, _never_ be like this man.

Closing the distance, he saw Loghain smile. There was something quiet behind his eyes, calm even now. Still his voice rang clear. "Will they follow you, I wonder? One lost boy, alone against all the world."

"I'm hardly alone." He could hear them shift behind him, the companions that he had gathered, the faces on the balconies above them nodding in agreement or shaking their heads in disbelief. So too could he feel them, those strange and varied others that he had seen along the way. They did not appear but somehow here, in this moment, he could sense them once more. But it was Alistair who smiled now, Alistair who stood before the throne.

Loghain inclined his head. "Then let the Landsmeet decide."

The woman whose brother had been taken by Howe immediately called out for the Warden, as did the man who had lost his son. Another cheered for Loghain, the man at his side trumpeting the Hero of the River Dane. Small victories and small defeats, the process was remarkably simple. Tallying the numbers in his head, Alistair felt his jaw go slack.

"The Landsmeet is deadlocked."

He blinked up at the woman who had spoken. "Great. What does that mean?"

Even Loghain seemed for the moment taken aback, but he was looking to Alistair now, eyes weighing him anew above a knowing smirk.

Another man leaned forward. "Then let it be decided as it was of old."

"Why do I get the feeling I'm not going to like this?"

"A duel. Single combat with the matter settled in favor of the victor."

"A _duel_? Me and him? For the _throne_?"

Already Loghain had moved away, turning to face him in the empty space before the dais. "Fitting, is it not? I should think you would relish the opportunity. Unless you fear your arm lacks the strength of your convictions."

It _was_ fitting, he did have a… no. Alistair's jaw clenched. Even in this, he would not admit the man was right. Drawing his sword from behind his shoulder he advanced on Loghain. Many of the nobles were coming down from the balconies, joining those who were already forming into a loose ring around them.

Alistair felt a hand on his arm. "Focus." Sten tilted his head to look down at him. "You have waited long for this."

"Worried he'll start swingin' wild, are ya? Nothing like a loose sword to ruin a party. Heh. Or start one." Oghren chuckled. "But I know a thing or two about rage, boy. The key is to _control_ it, use it."

Even Morrigan looked almost worried, her brows drawing low as she looked to Loghain. "And now is the time for righteous vengeance, is it? Do try not to get yourself killed."

Alistair followed her gaze, not taking his eyes from Loghain's as he moved through the waiting crowd. Leliana stood just beyond the ring, smiling up at him. "Good luck."

Unsheathing his own blade, Loghain steadied his shield. "Now let us see if you are truly worthy of being called Maric's son."

Only vaguely was he aware of the others now, of Eamon watching expressionless from the balcony above. So much had they accomplished, had he accomplished, all for the sake of duty, all to stop the coming Blight. But was that truly all? Was it not this moment that he had been waiting for, this opportunity that he had dreamed of since Ostagar? The thought should have troubled him, but Alistair found himself stepping certain, moving with Loghain as he began to circle.

One sideways pace and then two, the merest hesitation before the third. Alistair saw the feint just in time, raising his shield as Loghain threw his weight forward. He charged with a cry, sword coming down hard to crash against the gleaming steel. It left a deep gasp in its wake, the crest of Redcliff torn in two. The shield had been a gift from Eamon's armory; he would have to apologize later.

Loghain stepped back now, letting Alistair come to him. Tightening his grip, he raised the shield to his chin, darting round to come at him from the side, the slash of his sword turning into a sudden thrust. Loghain parried with ease, swatting it almost carelessly aside. In the same motion he twisted his shield, bashing it hard against Alistair's, using the momentum to slam its edge against his shoulder as he lowered his arm.

Maker. Alistair hissed between gritted teeth, saw the other man's eyes flash triumphant as he stepped back and opened his arms to the crowd. Loghain knew that he had him; he knew that he would win. He had always known.

Rolling his shoulder, Alistair looked to Wynne. One of the nobles stood beside her, shaking his head with a sneer. No, there would be no healing. He tested it again. It didn't hurt quite so much, not really. He raised his eyes to Loghain's.

"Giving up?"

Tightening his grip on the shield's straps, Alistair shook his head. He came on hard, leading with his sword, openly favoring his injured arm. For a moment he pushed him back, the sheer ferocity of the attack seeming to startle the older man. But Loghain pressed his advantage well, reigning blow after blow upon the slowly sinking shield.

Alistair let him see every wince, every shaking gasp. He couldn't have hid them if he tried. Soon enough it was he backing toward the dais, butting up against the steps. Loghain smiled then, changing direction at the last moment, aiming for a blind spot on his weakened side. Alistair twisted, parrying with his sword instead. It gave him the merest of openings. Raising his shield with a cry, he drove it into chest, chin and head in quick succession, his triumph turning to a scream of pain as Loghain fell.

"Ow, ow, ow!"

Pushing through the crowd, Wynne helped him shrug off the shield, laying soothing hands on his shoulder. Alistair gulped deep. He could hear them now, the wondering murmurs, the gathered Banns and Arls backing well away.

Loghain had sunk to his knees, bracing palms against the cold stone of the floor. Slowly he raised his eyes to Alistair's, something of a smile flickering beneath his sigh. He did not speak, did not flinch as Alistair leveled his sword at his throat.

"I don't suppose you're going to submit now?"

A shadow passed behind his eyes, the feeling of wrongness swelling again. "Not to you."

"Fair enough. I was actually hoping you'd say that." Alistair steadied his arm.

"Wait a moment!" Riordan stood in the doorway, the crowd parting before his slow and dragging steps. At the sight of him, many turned away. Alistair found himself scowling at that; the man was a Grey Warden, here to help them, the two of them Ferelden's only hope. "Alistair…" He paused beside him, looking down at Loghain.

"Riordan? Where have you been?"

"There were matters that needed my attention, as I said. But I have recovered something of great import." He produced a small vial from within his leathers, turning it to the light to reveal a single drop of dark liquid.

"What's that?"

"Blood."

"Right. Creepy."

Riordan smirked. "The blood of an archdemon, to be exact. To be mixed with the blood of lesser darkspawn in the Joining ritual. It is impossible without it."

"The… Joining?" Alistair gaped. "You can make more Grey Wardens?"

He shook the vial. "Duncan must have had other stores that I do not know of. There only remains enough for one." Again, he looked to Loghain.

"No, oh no. You want to make him a-a—? You've got to be kidding me!"

"The Wardens have never been discriminating in their recruiting practices though, because of the nature of our work, I know that Duncan preferred to take only those who had no other options."

"Riordan, no! Absolutely not!"

Anora stepped to his other side. "The ritual is often fatal, is it not? If it works you gain a general, if not you have your vengeance."

"No! No! We are through talking about this!"

"Warden, please!"

"Anora, hush." Strangely, it was Loghain who spoke, looking up at them with a heavy sigh. "It is over."

"No!"

Her cry was echoed from across the room, Ser Cauthrien drawing her blade as she pushed through the crowd. "No! It isn't over!" She swung wild, charging for Alistair, but Sten blocked her way. Catching her sword arm, he twisted, wincing as the blade cut into his palm. She hissed as he ripped it from her, stepping behind her to pin her arms behind her back.

"Cauthrien, stand down!"

Her face fell as she looked to Loghain, as she struggled still against Sten's chest. "You… you do not give up."

"I am beaten, Cauthrien."

"By this-this…?"

"So it would seem." He looked back to Alistair, tilting back his head. "Just make it quick."

"_No!_" With a sharp kick to Sten's knee, Cauthrien broke free, drawing the short blade from her belt as she lunged toward Alistair. But the Qunari recovered quickly, taking her head between his hands to give it a sharp and final twist. She fell limp instantly, neck sagging useless as he lowered her gently to the floor.

Someone in the crowd screamed. "Desecration of the Landsmeet chamber!"

"The savage… arrest him!"

There were guards flowing in through the doors now, but they hesitated uncertain. Some of the nobles had drawn blades of their own.

"Hello? She attacked me!" Alistair put himself between them and the big man, vaguely aware of Sten's irritated snort.

"The Qunari have always been as beasts. Perhaps they are the threat instead of Orlais."

"The _Blight_ is the threat!" Alistair tried to look at them each in turn. "And this man has done more about it than any of you have!" He looked to Anora. "You want me to have a general? I have one! And one that I can trust!"

"Order! The Landsmeet will come to order!" The woman who had called for the duel stood above them in the balcony still. "Ser Cauthrien attacked the Warden. She has paid the price."

Slowly, the others subsided. Alistair turned to look up at Sten with a sheepish smile.

"I am not going to hug you."

"Right. But, um… thanks."

He nodded with a grunt.

Still Loghain knelt where he had fallen; he had made no attempt to flee. Standing before him again, Alistair sighed. "If there are no other interruptions…"

"I did not ask for this."

"Funny, neither did I."

Anora moved to stand beside them, making no attempt now to hide her desperation. Pursing her lips, she shook her head. "Father…"

"Hush, Anora. It is alright." The man's sneer returned. "You have won Warden, I hope that you enjoy your victory."

Alistair swung back his blade. "I didn't do this for me. I did it for Duncan."

As the sword struck home, most of those in the crowd turned away. Only Anora watched, forced herself to watch, the blood splattering cross her cheeks. Alistair found himself studying her, something of the moment's would-be triumph slipping away.

"Then it is settled. Alistair will be king." He had almost forgotten about Eamon, his voice echoing down from the balcony.

Right. King. Alistair looked sideways at Anora. Still her eyes were fixed to her father's fallen form, the arguments dying on her lips.

"Anora, you must kneel before Alistair, renounce all claim to the throne for yourself and your heirs."

Her head snapped up. "If you think that I will agree to that Eamon, you are more fool than I thought."

"Alistair…"

"What?"

Moving to stand beside him, Morrigan sniffed. "She poses a threat to your rule. Kill her and be done with it."

"_What?_ No!"

"She betrayed you, did she not? Twice. Do it quickly and let us be gone."

She _had_ betrayed them; he had hated her for it. But looking to Anora now, he could not bring himself to meet her eyes. "Couldn't we just… lock her in the tower or something?"

Eamon blinked, sharing a long look with the other nobles. "I… suppose so. But something will have to be done eventually."

"Yes, yes, fine."

All were watching him now, as if expecting him to say something more. Maker, had they not had enough speeches for one day? Alistair coughed, trying to cool the flush that was creeping into his cheeks. "Right. I… I may not be Cailan but I know what it is that's coming and I know how to face it." It wasn't exactly a lie, not really. "If we are united here today, I know that together we can defeat this Blight. Marshal your armies. Let them know that for the first time in an age we do not fight alone."

There were a few uncertain cheers, but it was Anora who held his eye, nodding as if to prod him onward.

"We have more strength than we realize." He looked to Eamon. "We have wise council. I have seen the passion of our noble houses first hand." Sheathing his sword, he let his fingers play along the hilt, over the tiny Cousland crest emblazoned there. "We have allies long ignored, amongst the elves, the dwarves and more. We have experience." Turning to Sten, he smiled. "I hope that my companion – my friend – will agree to lead my armies, to lend us some of that long feared might."

The Qunari's brow twitched. "That is the most sensible thing I have ever heard you say."

"I, too, will be with the vanguard. Eamon will rule here as my reagent." Finally, Alistair remembered to breathe. Rubbing a hand behind his neck, he straightened his shoulders, voice echoing through the hall. "Gather your armies. We march as soon as we are able. Together, we will end this Blight."

The cheer was louder now, the departing whispers almost eager. Maker's breath, had he actually… had he actually done it? Turning round, he found himself staring up at the throne. At least they hadn't made him put on a crown.

"Alistair?" Riordan moved to stand beside him, swinging the shield from his back. "My apologies. Your majesty?"

"Please don't start that. You're the only other Grey Warden I know. I don't think I could stand it if you started calling me that."

The old man chuckled, pressing the shield into his hands. "I recovered this from our vault here in the city. I thought that you might like to have it."

"I… wait. This-this is Duncan's, isn't it? I had no idea it wasn't with him at Ostagar." His eyes widened in disbelief. "Thank you."

"You are welcome." Riordan nodded. "But we will speak later, you and I. Strategy."

"Right."

The others had largely filed out now. Only his companions and Eamon remained. Anora, too, stood near, shaking off a pair of gentle but insistent guardsmen. As they guided her past the dais, she stopped to stand beside him. "Are you satisfied?"

"I don't exactly think you're in a position to complain. You betrayed me first."

Her gaze flickered back to her father's body, to the men beginning to clear it away.

Alistair sighed. "It has to be better than what he did. I didn't stage a bloody coup, didn't send an entire army to their deaths."

"Didn't you?" She shook her head, moving away as one of the guards prodded her in the back.

He watched her go, unable yet to face the others. Twisting Duncan's shield in his hands, Alistair turned his eyes from the throne.


	33. To War

"Tell me why we're here again?"

Across the table, Bann Teagan chuckled, watching as Alistair pushed his still full plate aside. "Why, to be heroes of course, to fight the good fight. Is something troubling you, Your Majesty?"

"Please." Alistair winced, holding up a forestalling hand. "Please, just… don't do that."

Teagan bowed his head, barely hiding a smirk. "As you wish."

"I mean… why Redcliff?"

"I sent word to Eamon as soon as the attack began. We could have held them off a bit longer, but it was most fortunate that you arrived when you did."

The message had been waiting at the Arl's estate when they returned from the Landsmeet; a horde of darkspawn had been spotted marching toward Redcliff. Alistair had wondered at it even then, but had found himself grateful for the distraction. The companions had been able to make the journey with surprising speed. They had broken through the line, regained the castle and joined forces with Teagan's men. But somehow it had seemed too easy.

He shook his head. "But why attack Redcliff? It's not as well fortified as Denerim, but strong enough to give them pause. Why push here? Why not take the capital?"

"I did not take you for a strategist."

Alistair shrugged. "Well, there's a first time for everything."

"Their sudden retreat is… troubling." Teagan stroked his chin. "But we must take this time to gather our forces. I have to admit that it is an impressive sight."

Glancing over his shoulder, Alistair let his eyes sweep the dining hall. The town had nearly doubled in size, the hills above checkered with ordered lines of tents and aravels. Commanders from amongst the dwarves, Dalish and mages had been invited to join them in the castle, though each group kept a fair distance from the others. Meeting his gaze, Keeper Lanaya nodded.

He turned back to Teagan. "What now?"

"That is up to you."

"Because I'm king?"

He smiled. "Because you are the Grey Warden."

"'The' Warden. Right. Why doesn't that make me feel better?"

Across the hall, he was vaguely aware of an opening door, the whispers amongst the others growing as Alistair turned round. Riordan had already spotted him, making his way slowly between the tables. The older Warden had not accompanied them to Redcliff, hinting cryptically at some other mission before disappearing again. The promised talk of strategy had never come.

He should have been relieved to see him, but meeting the man's eyes, Alistair sagged. "Let me guess, bad news?"

Riordan hesitated a moment, glancing to those assembled before painstakingly shifting his dead leg and lowering himself into the chair beside Alistair. Arl Eamon must have been informed of his arrival, appearing from the inner halls to sit beside Teagan.

"I bring news." Riordan leaned low. "I have been scouting."

"You? Scouting?"

"I am more useful than I look." He made an offhand gesture with his stump, shaking his head as he looked to Alistair. "I had planned to return to Ostagar, to see if I could sense something of the horde. But I need not have gone that far."

"What do you mean?"

Riordan turned full to face him now. "Do you not feel it?"

"What, the taint? Impending doom? I always feel that."

"The horde has been spotted."

Teagan nodded. "They were here. We drove them off."

"I am afraid not." Riordan shook his head. "What you saw was merely a single prong, a test of our strength. The enemy is gathering. Its full host is larger even than that which you saw at Ostagar and they are moving… toward Denerim."

Alistair looked to Teagan but held his tongue. After a moment, he sighed. "Then what do we do?"

"We must leave for Denerim as soon as we are able. But there is more…"

"Great."

"Alistair." Riordan held his eye, the lines of his scowl deepening. "The archdemon has shown itself. It marches at the head of the horde."

"The…?" Alistair swallowed hard. He could feel the old Warden watching him, his brow furrowing thoughtfully.

"Then at least we know where it will be." He hadn't seen Sten approach, pausing now beside the table. Eamon had been none too pleased with Alistair's decision to turn over command of the armies to the Quanri but Sten had taken to it well, having spent the bulk of their time in Redcliff amongst the other commanders.

Riordan nodded. "But that, of course, will fall to Alistair and myself."

"Why?" Alistair's head snapped up, finding again that weighing gaze.

"Ah, of course. You were a new recruit; Duncan would not yet have seen a need to tell you."

"Tell me what?"

But Riordan had turned to Sten. "When can we be ready to move?"

"Hello? Tell me what?"

The big man grunted. "At first light. I will make sure of it."

"Excellent." Riordan came stiffly to his feet. "Then I suggest that we all get some rest."

"There are rooms upstairs." Teagan gestured toward the inner halls. "The last on the right should be free."

"You have my thanks." Riordan sighed, expression unreadable as he glanced down at them. "Alistair. Come and see me as soon as you are able."

He watched him go. "Why does he only ever show up when there's bad news?"

Eamon and Teagan shared a look.

Rising from his seat, Alistair pushed his plate away. Suddenly he wasn't hungry. He might not ever be hungry again. It was slowly that he made his way into the hall, each step heavier than the last.

He found Leliana there, seated on a quiet bench with her lute in her lap. She did not see him at first, plucking quietly at the strings, cursing beneath her breath as a note twanged sour.

"I'm guessing that's not a rousing battle march?"

Raising her head, she brushed a fallen strand of hair from her eyes. "Not exactly."

Alistair hesitated a moment before sinking onto the bench beside her. She had not been avoiding him, not really, but they had not been alone together since the Landsmeet. But she did not scoot away, offering him a small and encouraging smile.

Settling back, she began to play. The chords were melancholy, the whispered words Orlesian but unmistakably mournful. After a time she trailed off, letting the final note hang unresolved. "It is not yet finished."

"What is it?"

"Just an idea you gave me." Her smile twitched as she lay the lute flat across her lap. "But I saw Riordan pass this way. I did not know that he was here."

Alistair sighed. "He just showed up. He said the horde is marching on Denerim, that the archdemon is with them."

She was silent for a long moment. "And we…?"

"Leave in the morning."

"Good."

"Right. Good."

"Alistair…" She lay a hand on his knee, pulling back suddenly as he turned to look at her.

"I-I have to go. Riordan wants to see me." He rose without looking back, leaving her to stare after him as he made his way up the stairs.

Moving through the upper halls, he passed his own rooms. They were the finest of the guest chambers, fit for a king, a hero. Alistair had avoided setting foot inside as long as he could. Already everyone was looking to him, treating him differently. He was almost grateful to Eamon for sparing him this fate as long as he did.

Pausing, he braced a hand against the wall. Fate. He had expected to feel it again, that sense of wrongness, that things should be another way. Cailan should be king, not him. But the feeling had never come.

He had reached the last door, he realized. Pushing it aside, he found Riordan waiting on the edge of the bed, coming slowly to his feet with a heavy sigh.

"Alistair."

He had exaggerated downstairs; part of him was relieved to see the other Warden again. Whatever this was, it was theirs to share.

"Alistair… I wish I was not the one to tell you this. I wish that we had more time. But—"

"But we don't. We never do."

Riordan nodded. "No, we do not. Do you know why it is that only a Grey Warden may end the Blight? Do you know why it is that we are needed?"

"Because we can sense the darkspawn? Hear the horde?"

One arm cocked behind his back as he began to pace, the thoughtful gesture only half-formed. "This is true. It is the taint that allows us to find them, to fight them. It is the taint that is our greatest strength." He raised his eyes. "What did Duncan tell you of the archdemon?"

"Big dragon thing, summons the horde, likes to turn up in dreams." Alistair shuddered. "What I'm not getting is how we're supposed to kill it. Or if it can even be killed."

Riordan's lips twitched. "It can, but it will not be easy. When an archdemon is slain its… essence will seek out another tainted creature. It will be reborn again in the body of the nearest darkspawn. In this way, the archdemon is all but immortal."

"Immortal? _Immortal_? Maker's—"

"Darkspawn are soulless creatures. A Grey Warden, though, is not. If a Warden is to deliver the final blow, the essence of the archdemon will seek the taint, travel into the Warden. It is consumed utterly, permanently in the process… and so is the Warden."

"'And so is…' In order to kill the archdemon a Warden has to _die_?"

He nodded. "This is our true purpose, why only a Grey Warden can end the Blight."

Alistair found himself sinking onto the bed. The world should spin, it should scream against this, tell him it was wrong. He should scream. But in all that he had seen, all that he had done… there was only death. He had cheated it, sent others speeding toward it, seen faces from beyond. And he had known that he was like them; he had felt a… kinship. Maybe this was why.

"I… understand."

Riordan sighed. "The taint will not spare me much longer. As the eldest, the blow should fall to me."

"And if it doesn't?"

He shook his head.

"Right." Alistair pushed himself to his feet. "Well, I did want to get out of this king thing."

Riordan almost chuckled. "Eamon wondered if you might not intend to leave the throne to Anora after all. But do not be reckless. One of us must reach the archdemon with the strength left to fight."

He looked at him then, really looked at him. Still he stood proud, ready. Crippled or no, Alistair had no doubt that the old Warden would make his stand, would press on until he could press no more. He would stand and he would die. They both would.

Alistair threw his arms around the man, pulling him into an awkward hug. After a moment, Riordan patted him on the back.

"You-you kind of remind me of Duncan, you know."

Pity flickered as he stepped back, but there was a smile there. "And glad I am to hear it. Now go. Rest. There is still much to be done."

Stepping into the hall, Alistair breathed deep. Again he wondered at that, the lack of panic, the lack of fear. All that remained was certainty. Soon enough it would be over. But he should tell someone, shouldn't he? Riordan was… but somehow that wasn't enough. Suddenly he wanted anything but to be alone. Not with this.

If this was to be the end… He would stop by his rooms, pack for tomorrow. And then, then he would go and find—

"Do not be afraid. 'Tis only I."

Alistair froze in the doorway, watching as Morrigan turned from the fire. "Afraid? Of a scary witch just _lurking_ in my room? Annoyed, more like."

"A crown and a kingdom and still you find cause for complaint."

"Oh, did I say witch? I meant _bitch_."

Morrigan only smiled, outlined against the flames as she took a slow and swaying step forward. "Yet I see no tears. Here you stand, despite what comes."

He blinked at that.

"Your Warden told you, did he not? About the… archdemon?" She stretched the word, circling behind him, her whisper stirring cross his cheek.

Alistair flinched. "You… how could you possibly—?"

"Know? I have known for some time."

He whirled to face her. "You _knew_? Why wouldn't you tell me?"

Morrigan pursed her lips.

"Fine. You know what? It doesn't matter anyway." He had already reached the door when he heard her sigh.

"It does not have to be this way. You do not have to die."

The room spun, his hand bracing against the doorframe. Again he could smell it, the smoke on the air, again he could taste the choking ash. Half-remembered screams echoed, his vision suddenly filling with Leliana's glazed and distant eyes. "What do you—? Why would you say that?"

"Because I can offer an alternative." She moved closer, standing just behind him now. "What did he tell you, I wonder? What of the pain?"

Alistair gasped with the memory. Never in waking had he known such pain. It seared, burned, his teeth grinding as he pinched shut his eyes. At first he could not identify it, the sudden cool spreading up his spine, drawing him back from the dream's edge. Breathing deep, he felt Morrigan's hand on his shoulder.

"Don't." He pulled away, moving deeper into the room. "You're playing with me; I know you're playing with me. And R-Riordan said that he would take the final blow himself."

"Did he? I have seen his injuries. I am surprised that the old man has lasted this long."

"That _old man_ has been through more than you can imagine, more than _I_ can imagine."

"And no doubt he would die to prove it." She paced closer. "But what if you could spare him?"

Alistair avoided her eyes. "I… don't know. He almost speaks as though he wants it… the whole glorious death thing."

"As do you, it seems."

"I _don't_ want it! Not the throne, not glory, not anything! I-I'm not the glorious type. That was Cailan, not me!" He sighed. "But it's done. Whatever happens… it's done."

"Such a fool." Morrigan stepped close, anger flaring now. "Life is always preferable to death. How endlessly you have whined about duty, about fate. What I am offering is a _choice_, a chance to decide for yourself."

"And what do you get out of it? There's obviously something you're not telling me. And if _you_ want something, I'm guessing it's going to turn out badly for the rest of us."

She blinked. "Am I truly so horrible?"

"Do you really want me to answer that?"

"Perhaps not." Her lips pulled into a tiny smirk. "It is a wonder that your Duncan did not warn you. You thought him something like a father, did you not?"

Alistair winced. She was toying with him, reminding him that he had once confided in her, given her an opening. "He was just protecting me."

"Was he?" She tilted her head to look up at him, stepping close enough to touch. "I would not have done so. I would have armed you with as much information as I could."

"And yet…" He took a step back but she followed, laying a hand against his chest. "What are you—?"

"I will admit that I would have preferred to do this another way, a simple agreement. But appealing to your reason is obviously a useless exercise."

The retort died on his lips. Her touch was warm now, her fingers curling against the laces of his tunic. In all this place, in all the world, only she and Riordan shared his secret. The feeling, the certainty returned. He was not supposed to face this alone.

His voice came thick. "Tell me."

"You will not like it."

Alistair steeled himself. He could feel her pressing close, the dream returning. But it was not death that he tasted now, not smoke that filled his eyes. It was her. It was _Morrigan_. Maker's breath, it was—

She rose onto her toes, stretching against him, one hand snaking behind his head to pull his mouth to hers. Alistair froze, his jaw going slack as he raised his hands. They hovered uncertain, following the curve of her back, nails digging into his palms as they balled into fists. Grabbing her by the shoulders, he pushed her away.

"What are you—?" He held her there at arm's length, the touch lingering, his grip tightening. "I-I… hate you..."

Reaching behind her, Morrigan slipped the pin from her hair, letting it tumble free about her shoulders. In the Deep Roads it had seemed soft, the reflection white and cool, but here… here it caught the firelight in roaring waves, the shadowed halo warming beneath his straying fingers.

Alistair pulled his hand away.

"You do not have to die."

"Stop saying that." It had been a dream, only a dream. There was no reason – no sensible reason – that this, _this_ could be the thing that… It echoed from the Tower and the forests and the Deeps, that familiar certainty, the path stretching out before him. This felt… _right_. Maker, he had finally gone completely mad.

Morrigan stepped close, brows drawing low as she looked up at him. One hand followed the delicate curve of her shoulder, slipping the robes down and over her arms. As they fell to puddle at her feet, she smiled. "You have a choice. You do not have to—"

He pulled her roughly against his chest, crushing her to him, fingers tangling in her hair as he covered her mouth with his. Her laughter whispered cross his lips, her teeth nipping, pulling, bringing a hiss of pain. But Alistair no longer hesitated, letting his hands roam low, letting it wash over him. Finally, completely, he gave up.

"Alistair, I—"

Pulling away with a gasp, he found Leliana standing in the doorway. Her breath seemed to hitch, the firelight wavering in her eyes.

Morrigan laughed, draped against him still, tracing her lips along the line of his jaw. Alistair tried to twist away, but she held him fast, nails scraping cross his back.

"Leliana!"

She whirled, steps echoing through the hall as she fled.

"Lel—! Andraste's flaming—! Let go of me!" He jerked his arm roughly away from Morrigan, making for the door.

"Alistair! I know about the taint."

He stopped but did not turn round.

"He told you, did he not?" She moved behind him, a glance over his shoulder revealing a shadowed line of swaying hip as he turned his face quickly away. "Darkspawn or Grey Warden, it does not matter. In one it will be reborn, in the other destroyed. But there is yet another option."

Alistair pinched shut his eyes, stiffening at the warmth of her against his back.

Her hand curled round his shoulder, the whisper hot against his ear. "A child, conceived on the eve of battle. One born with the taint."

"You want me to _impregnate_ you?" He spun away with a hiss, swatting at her hand as she reached for him. "A child? With _you_? You're cracked! You're _absolutely_ mad!"

Her eyes narrowed, the sudden scowl faltering in disbelief. Alistair realized that he was laughing. He shook with it, bending double, gasping for breath.

"'Tis not _I_ who is mad, it seems."

He sobered instantly, closing the distance between them. Morrigan took a step back, unable to hide her surprise.

"And yet you _actually_ thought this would work? You thought that I'd agree to… to… and to _kill a child_?"

"I said no such thing. At this early stage, the child would remain unharmed. It will be able to absorb the soul of the old god without need of death. Not yours, not your Riordan's."

He blinked. "Old… god?"

"Do you truly know so little of what you face?" Morrigan shook her head, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. "No matter. 'Twas not always a tainted creature. In this, it would have a chance to be reborn, free of corruption, to begin anew."

"How-how is that even _possible_?"

She smirked. "Blood magic."

"Oh, _blood magic_! Well, that makes it so much better!"

"I said that you would not like it."

Turning back to the bed, he found her staring up at him, apparently caring nothing for her nakedness. Alistair pinched shut his eyes, letting his head sink into his palm. "You… planned this all along, didn't you?"

"I have known for some time, yes."

"Did you ever think you could have – you know – told me?"

"Would you have listened?"

He snorted. "No."

Again she was on her feet, moving toward him. "As I said, I would have preferred it so. An agreement, nothing more. But I knew that you would not see reason."

"So you don't… you didn't…"

Morrigan flinched at that, refusing to meet his eyes. "I… did only what I must. As have you." She sighed, moving to lay a hand against his chest. "But must duty truly be so arduous?"

Alistair caught her wrist.

"You have not truly considered what it is that I am offering. Think on this: were the demon to seek the child, any might deliver the final blow. You need not be the only hope. You need not even be there."

He goggled. "Not be there?"

"I must be nearby. But you could leave duty to another."

"And just… go?"

"I offer you your life, your freedom. A choice."

Alistair could feel it stretch before him, the call of that familiar path. All he need do was take that final step, all he need do was... Chuckling now, he shook his head. "So it's a choice between sleeping with you and death?"

Slowly, she raised her eyes to his.

"I'll take death."


	34. Into the City

"Warden."

Alistair turned from hammering the stakes of his tent, almost smiling to see Oghren there. Almost. He hadn't smiled much since Redcliff. But for once the dwarf's face was solemn, his eyes flitting round the camp. They were perhaps only a day's march from Denerim, the army making better time than he would have expected.

"Can we walk?"

Alistair straightened. Whatever it was might actually be serious, but he was grateful for the distraction. Together, they followed the perimeter of the advance camp, silent but for the distant shouts of the men in the larger camps beyond. Sten would be among them, Leliana as well.

He had not been able to find her that last night in Redcliff, but he had spotted her talking with Wynne and Teagan on the road. As far as he could tell, she was camping amongst the Dalish, giving him as wide a berth as she could. Morrigan too had disappeared that night, not even bothering to dress before shifting into a dog and bolting from the castle.

It had been a quiet journey, a lonely one.

Oghren was watching him, he realized, but his thoughts were obviously his own. After a time, he coughed, wiping a hand across his mouth. "So… uh… I was thinking."

"Yeah?"

"About this whole Warden thing."

Alistair stopped, blinking down at him. "What about it?"

"Hard soddin' deal you got there. I'll bet you're wishin' they'd told you about that archdemon bit when you signed up, huh?"

"H-How do you know about that?"

For once the dwarf looked almost sheepish. "I… err, I mighta been listening. Back in Redcliff."

"You—" The thought occurred to him suddenly. "Have you told anyone else?"

"Ain't my secret to tell. Might not be a bad idea to tell yer woman, though. They really go for that whole hero thing."

"She-she's not my…"

"Ah. Ain't forgiven you yet?"

"Don't tell me you were listening to—"

Chuckling, he held up a hand. "Nah. But one runs off, one avoids you. 'S obvious enough."

"Great."

"You've got problems I don't envy. But, well…"

"What?"

Oghren shook himself, hand straying to his belt flask before curling indecisive at his side. "That Riordan… what he said at the Landsmeet… well, it just… it just seems to me you Wardens need all the help you can get."

Alistair gaped. "Wait, you—?"

"Wanna be a Warden?" He snorted, smirking as he ran a hand through his beard. "Yeh, yeh I guess I do. I mean, why not?"

"_'Why not?'_"

"You take poor sods down on their luck, those who've got nothing else. You give 'em a purpose, point 'em at the fight. I can think of worse things to be."

"But you, you…" Alistair trailed off, studying him. "You're sure? I mean, there's nothing else you want to… you know, do?"

Oghren raised his eyes, looking away to the west. After a long moment, he shook his head. "Nah. Nothing more fun than this, anyway."

"Fun. Right." Starting toward Riordan's tent, Alistair kept one eye on the dwarf. "You do know that the Joining can be fatal, right? That you have to drink darkspawn blood? _Archdemon_ blood?"

"Heh. Don't you worry, Warden. Never met a cup I couldn't beat."

They found Riordan struggling to unfurl his bedroll. Well, not struggling exactly. Pinning it down with one knee, he worked the straps between his hand and teeth, sitting back with a triumphant chuckle. Alistair had had plenty of opportunities to ask what he planned to do in the fight, but had always found a reason to hold his tongue.

"Riordan."

The old Warden glanced up at them, coming slowly to his feet. "Alistair. And… I apologize, but I have forgotten your companion's name."

"Oghren." The dwarf wiped his hand against his breeches before offering it to the man. "Ya still got that blood?"

Riordan quirked a brow.

"He… he wants to be a Warden."

"Does he?" He looked to Alistair. "And you have explained the risks? All of them?"

"I… yeah…"

"And you are certain that he is—"

"Way I figure it, you can't exactly afford to be choosy now, can ya? Three chances to kill the thing are better'n two." Oghren snorted. "Three chances to be a soddin' hero."

Alistair sighed. "Please tell me you're not just doing this to impress women."

"Eh? Now that's not a bad idea. Whatsay we get this over with and you and me go down to the camps? The Warrior Caste has got some of the finest and filthiest—"

"No. No I'm good, thanks."

"Suit yerself."

Looking between them, Riordan shook his head. "I was able to save some of the darkspawn blood from our last encounter. The ritual should take me only a moment to prepare. I only regret that it must be done with such haste, under such circumstances."

"Do I look like I need a buncha fancy rituals?"

"It's not complicated. There are a few words that must be said." Alistair smirked down at the dwarf. "_Serious_ words. Then you just… well… you drink a little blood, you choke on it, you pass out."

"Heh. Sounds like my kinda party."

* * *

The three of them had retired to Alistair's tent for some semblance of privacy. Though he had not heard them since his own Joining, it had been Alistair who recited the words, surprised to find how easily he remembered them. It had stirred then, the vague sense that he had done this before, should have done this before. But Oghren had taken the cup from Riordan, downing it in a single pull. In that moment Alistair had held his breath, but the dwarf only swayed, letting out a resounding belch before toppling backward.

He did not wake, but if the swelling snores were any indication Oghren had made it through alive and largely unchanged. Alistair had left him in Riordan's care, suddenly feeling the need to get away, to find some quiet escape from the words still echoing in his mind. _Join us…_ and yet there had been no one else. He had been alone.

His steps took him beyond the advance camp, following the line of the trees. Already the night hung heavy, the flickering of the cookfires and the talking of the men muted beneath the thickening shadows. All knew that they would reach Denerim tomorrow, that tomorrow it would end.

Alistair found himself passing the first of the remaining aravels, taking some comfort in the quiet whispers of the elves, the archers still at practice. For the Dalish this might well be just another stop on their ever-stretching road, life amongst the caravans largely unchanged despite the coming battle. He did not know how many clans had been called, but Keeper Lanaya had told him that this would be the final camp for those who would not fight, for the armorers and bowyers rushing to make last minute preparations. Still more had been left behind in Redcliff, the children so noticeably absent in the silence. And yet if Alistair tried hard enough, he could almost imagine that they were…

There was laugher, even here. A fire burned near the edge of the trees, sending shifting shadows amongst the elves gathered there. But it was the voice that stopped him, ringing clear above the first shifting twangs of the lute. Leliana shared a smile with the woman at her side, twirling a tuning peg as she gave the strings an experimental pluck. The two remained deep in conversation, until she raised her head.

He had come too close, meeting her eyes across the flames. For a moment it seemed that she might stand, might speak, but her scowl returned, hardening as her eyes narrowed. Maybe Oghren was right, maybe he should tell her, explain what it was that she had seen. Right. Morrigan had just wanted him to impregnate her with some demon... god… baby.

Alistair sighed. Even if she didn't decide he was completely _mad_ it wouldn't be fair, not really. Turning away, he disappeared into the trees.

He did not go far, stopping as he heard the first familiar strains of the song. It was the same that she had played for him in Redcliff, but she sang now in the common tongue, the elves falling silent to listen. Alistair hesitated, feeling himself flush even in the darkness. Creeping to the edge of the wood he sat near as he dared, resting his back against a tree. It was a long moment before he could calm his breath, settle enough to make out the words.

_"Voices from the shadows,  
Echoes of those lost,  
To come and stand beside you,  
When the final die is tossed._

_But did she bring salvation,  
Or a swift and wicked death?  
For all the words unspoken,  
He could not find the breath._

_And so he rose to meet her,  
To steal one last embrace.  
Laughing for the danger,  
He bid them flee that place._

_There she stood beside him,  
Dead but now returned.  
They would draw their blades together,  
And feel the world burn."_

It was about Zevran, he realized. The idea had been Alistair's own, that vague hope that the woman had helped him, that they had somehow survived the encounter in the alley. But it had been a foolish notion; the assassin was dead.

Leliana continued to play, spinning and stretching the tale, but Alistair was no longer listening. The early verses held him still. He too had followed the dead, never questioning, never wondering where it was that they might lead. And now that he was to "toss the final die?" Leaning back against the tree, he sighed. Stories were only stories. Even Zevran hadn't laughed at the end.

Another song began after the first but the voice was different, the words strange. They said that the elves had a long appreciation for storytelling, their histories passed down from generation to generation. Occasionally he could hear her voice, her laughter, but by the time she began to sing again Alistair's chin had already slumped against his chest, his eyelids growing heavy.

* * *

For once, he did not dream. Strange then, the feel of it against him, of something shifting cross his hips, pressing him down. Alistair woke with a start, his scream lost beneath her lips, the warm fingers working at the laces of his breeches.

Struggling back against the tree, Alistair freed himself with a gasp. "L-Leliana?"

She straddled him where he sat, pausing to look down at him with a strange and distant scowl. Bending quick, she covered his mouth again with hers, taking his lower lip hard between her teeth.

"Ow! Hey–ow!" He caught her by the shoulders, holding her above him.

She did not speak, merely remained looking down at him. If she was angry or afraid or worried, he could not tell. But still her fingers played across his chest, tracing the lines of his stomach as her eyes grew wide and watering.

"Hey, don't. I—"

Again she leaned low, unmindful of the tears, hands now working at her own laces, slipping the tunic up and over her head.

"Oh, right. You want to—"

But her lips found his, the kiss long and deep and… strange. There was a new urgency to her touch, her nails biting as they tugged free his belt and pushed his breeches over his hips. Whether he gasped for the pain or the feel of her he could not tell, but she did not hesitate, shifting aside the leathers of her skirt as she lowered herself against him.

Maker—! He should tell her… he should… ask… Even when they… It had never been like… _Maker's breath!_

Alistair's fingers knotted in the grass as he shifted with her, rising to meet her. Her head had fallen against his shoulder, her hair tickling cross his cheek. Breathing deep of that familiar warmth, he let his eyes fall closed.

At first he thought that she was speaking, the whispers distant and half-formed. But opening his eyes, there were only her thickening whimpers, his own deep gasp. No, not now. Why did he have to be crazy _now_? Burying his face against her chest, Alistair pushed the feeling away, tried not to hear the stirring of the trees.

He rose above her, rolling to pin her beneath him. Leaning back, he looked down at her, seeing again those glazed and distant eyes, the death that he had imagined again and again and again. But her nails dug hard against his flesh, pressing her to him, the cry welling deep in his chest as his back buckled. Light broke behind his eyes as he screamed, the pain tempered in the moment's abandon, a shuddering echo of things to come.

She fell silent as he collapsed beside her, burying his face in the cool and prickling grass. One arm snaked round to pull her close but already the exhaustion was taking him, her stiffness going unnoticed as he curled himself around her.

* * *

Alistair woke on his back, staring up at the leaves shifting in the early breeze. Dawn was breaking through the canopy, the sun's first rays glinting on the beaded dew collecting above him. The web was fine, thin, each drop sliding slowly, inexorably toward its center. It was almost a beautiful thing, whatever spider had created it long gone.

He sat with a start. Leliana…but she was gone, only the faintest impression remaining in the grass beside him. Had it been a dream? Running his hands across the grass, across the fresh scratches on his chest, he winced.

Slowly, stiffly, he rebuckled his belt, grateful at least that no one had found the King of Ferelden lying in the woods with his pants around his ankles. Alistair paused at that. Today. Today would bring an end to it. He rubbed a hand across his chin, sighing for the roughness of the beard. By the color of the sky he would have some time before they were ready to march.

Glancing up he spotted another web, larger than the first. Maker, he hated spiders. Had he seen them last night, he might have picked another clearing.

Rather than make for camp, he moved deeper into the woods. They had chosen this location for a reason and if he remembered correctly… He came upon the stream soon enough, wide but almost still, silent but for the slow and rippling current. Kneeling on the bank, he stared down at his reflection.

He did not think on last night, nor on the first night that they had spent beside just such a stream. He did not think on friends lost or enemies felled or familiar faces that he had never met. He did not think on the armies gathered, the walls besieged, the duty that awaited him. All these thoughts he pushed from his mind, reaching into his belt pouches to retrieve a long-forgotten razor. The motions were silent, methodical, the hair falling to send spreading rings across the water's surface.

Blinking down at himself, Alistair smiled. It was a face he had not thought to see again.

Preparations were already underway when he returned to the advance camp. Tents had been rolled, arms and armor checked. Someone had seen to his gear, waiting packed and ready just where he had left it. He should complain at that, shouldn't he? He hadn't asked anyone to… But Alistair's eyes strayed ahead, looking to the sun breaking over a nearby hill.

His legs carried him forward without thought, eyes widening as he reached its crest. The smoke hung in a thick haze, the walls of Denerim just visible away to the northeast. Around them they swarmed, thick as moving shadow, the horde stretching endless. And they would reach it by midday.

Looking to the figure sitting beside him, Alistair chuckled. "I thought you might show up."

The mabari cocked an ear, its gaze fixed on the city ahead. The growl rumbled deep in its chest, a greeting of sorts… and a warning.

"Right. I know."

"You mighta warned me." Oghren came puffing up the hill behind them, stopping dead at the sight of the mabari. "Soddin'—!"

The dog glanced at the dwarf, lips drawing back in a perfunctory snarl before it turned away again.

"He's okay."

"You sure about that?"

Alistair did have to admit that it looked larger than the last time and better fed… though he didn't really want to think about that. Still its fur was spiked and matted, thick with… well, probably whatever it had eaten. He turned back to Oghren. "Warned you about what? You're the one who was so eager to be a Warden."

"But – Stone! – the _dreams_!"

"Oh. Yeah. Sorry about that."

He snorted. "That… dragon. That's what we have to kill?"

Squinting away into the distance, Alistair nodded. He could see no sign of the archdemon, not from here. But Riordan was right, he could sense… something.

"Heh. At least we might not have to worry about the dreams much longer, eh?"

"There's always that."

* * *

The sun had not yet reached its peak when they called a halt on the road. It snaked down across the hills ahead, giving them one final vantage before plunging into the rear of the horde. They had not yet been noticed, though they were close enough now that the ash on the air stung Alistair's eyes.

"They have breached the walls." Sten moved to stand beside him.

Riordan was at his other side. "It could not be helped. But we have made impressive time."

"So… what now?"

Riordan turned to Alistair with something of a smile. Glancing past him, he nodded to the men gathered behind them. "Now I believe it is time to remind them why they fight."

"'Why they—?' Wait. _Another_ speech?"

"You might as well get used to it." Wynne pushed her way through the crowd. "But do make it quick, some of us have places to be."

"Need a nap, do you? You know, if you want to sit this one out I do have some more socks that need darning."

The old mage sniffed. "Alistair Theirin, you will address your men or so help me I will—"

"Right. Okay, I'm going." He smirked, eyes lighting on an abandoned scaffold just beside the road. Once they might have hung bandits here, but it was empty now, long unused. He looked to Riordan and Oghren. "Should we maybe… since we're all Grey Wardens…?"

Riordan smiled. "I believe this falls to you, my friend."

Mounting the old and sagging stairs, Alistair looked out across the crowd. Their armies… _his_ armies… so many of them... But would it be enough?

Beneath their eyes he stood exposed, alone. "This—" Looking to the empty place beside him, he hesitated. "I—" Alistair swallowed hard.

He spotted her then, moving through the crowd. Stopping beside Wynne, Leliana offered him a timid smile. He could see the others now, Sten and Shale and Oghren, Bann Teagan and Keeper Lanaya and First Enchanter Irving. There were still more faces that he recognized, nameless companions who had somehow found their way here, today, with him. When at last he raised his head, Alistair's voice rang clear.

"Before you stands the might of the darkspawn horde. Gaze upon them now, but fear them not." Stretching out an arm, he looked to the city walls. "Fear is behind us. I once said that I did not ask for this, that I did not ask to lead you, to face this threat. But no one ever _asks_ for this. Though we cannot choose what we face, we can still choose _how_ we face it. That's what has brought us here today."

"We are those who have chosen to fight, to stand together. We are ancient enemies and old friends; we have forged through disease and demons and death itself to stand here, now, in this place. Despite what we have lost, despite all that might have been, we are here. Look to those around you, brothers and strangers. Know that you are not alone."

Drawing his sword, he moved slowly down the stairs, swinging Duncan's shield from his shoulder. The weapons of dead men and yet they too had found their way to this final charge. Looking out across the city, Alistair raised them both. "Today we avenge the death of my brother, King Cailan! Today we show the Grey Wardens that we remember their sacrifice! Today we stand together!"


	35. The Final Battle

It slithered beneath his skin, the whisper echoing behind his eyes. Sound but not sound, a call without need of voice. Alistair gasped, glancing up just in time to see the dragon swoop low over the walls. He ducked instinctively but already it was moving away, seeming to pay them little mind. Seeing Riordan watching him, he flushed.

The old Warden smiled. "We have surprised it, I think. Feel how it calls to them, rallies them. It knows why we are here."

"It _knows_?"

"Oh yes." His eyes turned skyward, following its progress across the city.

They had taken the gate easily enough, the men forming ordered lines as they filed through the narrow gaps in the outer wall. It had almost seemed easy. Alistair had barely had a chance to fight; everywhere he looked the darkspawn were being overwhelmed. And yet the feeling was unsettling.

"Do not worry." Riordan was at his shoulder. "You will get your chance."

"I should feel silly complaining about the help, shouldn't I? But I guess I just got used to doing things—"

"—Alone?"

He nodded, noticing as the other man's gaze flickered away.

"Ya gonna use that blade, Warden, or ya just gonna stand there gawking?" Oghren darted past with a booming laugh, hurling himself at a pair of genlocks. But no sooner had he driven his axe into the belly of the first, three more soldiers appeared, taking down the other in a flurry of thrusting blades. The dwarf let out a grunt of frustration.

Leliana stood nearby, nocking arrow after arrow in rapid succession, picking her targets from a distance. Wynne seemed to be concentrating on healing, moving between the bands of men in a shimmering haze. It was easy, too easy.

"They have already breeched the city. There will be more inside." Sten stopped beside them, sheathing his blade. It was slick and wet, his armor already darkly stained.

"Why does he get to fight?" Alistair turned to the big man. "Why do _you_ get to fight?"

He snorted.

The others were gathering round now, the soldiers letting out a whooping cheer. Riordan, though, shook his head. "This was merely what was left to hold the walls. The archdemon has generals within the city, countless more darkspawn."

"Hold the walls…" Alistair trailed off, looking to his companions. "We-we should do the same."

Wynne folded her arms with a knowing smirk. "So after all your talk, all your balking… you are suggesting that we split up?"

He chuckled. "Yeah, yeah I guess I am."

"I will go ahead of you into the city." Bending his arm behind his back, Riordan paced before them. "We will need to reach high ground, draw the archdemon to us. The top of Fort Drakon should do."

"Wait. Draw it _to_ us?"

Sten leaned close to Alistair's shoulder. "How else do you intend to fight it?"

"Shut up." Turning to Riordan, he shook his head. "But how exactly… I mean it can… you know…"

"Fly? A significant advantage. Leave that to me." He took a step forward, breath catching as his leg dragged beneath him. Rubbing his hand against his thigh, he sighed. "But should I fail… I will need archers. Your best."

Some of the Dalish stood nearby. At a gesture from Alistair they came trotting over.

Riordan nodded. "Thank you."

"I will go with him as well."

Alistair stiffened, turning slow to meet Leliana's eyes. It was the first he had heard her speak all day, but there was no room for argument in that gaze. "You… can't."

Shouldering her bow, she arched a brow. "You said that we must split up, no? Each of us to where we are needed?"

"Yes, but not—"

"Unless you doubt my skill? He will need the best. But perhaps you think that I am not—"

"I-I didn't mean—"

The first hint of a smile tugged at her scars. She was toying with him. "Maker's breath…"

Stepping close, she planted a gentle kiss on his cheek. "Do not worry."

"Worry. Right. Just a little archdemon."

Her smile faltered as she drew him aside. "It is… strange, no? To know that our fate will be decided in a matter of hours."

"Funny. I kind of get this feeling that it was decided a long time ago."

Tilting her head, she studied him. "I wonder if all great heroes feel this way, if this is what it is like to write your own story."

"Riiight… me. A hero." Alistair snorted.

"You have already proven yourself. No one here doubts that."

"But-but it's not a story, at least not the kind you want it to be."

"Oh, I do not know about that." Her gaze strayed over his shoulder, to Riordan and the elves already making their way to the inner gate. "But we will speak later."

She didn't really believe that; he could see it in her eyes. He should tell her now… say something… apologize…

Stretching up on her toes, Leliana pressed her lips to his. He was vaguely aware of the others, of some unheard joke passing between Oghren and Sten, but he did not care. It was a long moment before he pulled away, saw her smiling up at him.

"It _was_ you!" Alistair felt himself sag with relief.

She flushed, turning her face away. "Who did you think it was?"

"I—"

"When I saw you with… I thought that was the kind of woman you wanted. It is why I…"

Crushing her against his chest, Alistair lay his cheek against her forehead. Of course it had been her in the woods; it had always been her.

Her smile remained, strong despite the sadness of her eyes. Leaning close, her sigh shuddered cross his lips, lingering in one final, fleeting kiss. "Go. Forge your legend."

Dimly was he aware of her moving amongst the others, exchanging embraces and farewells. It was only when she reached the inner gate that he raised his head, saw her pause for a parting wave.

"Nicely done, Warden!" Oghren clapped him on the back. Even Sten seemed to be smirking.

"Yeah, well…" Staring after her, Alistair shook himself. "Things to kill, remember?"

As they returned to the others he let his eyes roam over them. There should be more; there could have been more. But Zevran had… and then Morrigan… now Leliana… Alistair pushed the thought away. It wasn't the same; she could handle herself. It was _he_ who was not coming back.

He sighed. "Sten?"

"Yes." It wasn't a question; he understood.

"What, no argument? No grumbling about being left behind?"

"We must hold the gate."

"I wouldn't trust anyone else to watch my back. Plus, you've got the command experience and you're – you know – _really scary_."

The Qunari inclined his head. "There is also that. But do not doubt that it is _you_ who has led us this far, Warden. I am happy to be surprised."

"You? Happy? Nah."

He chuckled.

"Don't suppose I can get that hug now?"

"No."

Alistair found himself smiling. Even at the end, he couldn't help it. "Oghren?"

"Thought you'd never ask."

"But… you're sure?"

"To late for that, eh?" He puffed out his chest, grinning as Sten sighed. "I'm a Warden, ain't I?"

"I thought you didn't do it to impress anybody."

"Nah, that's just extra. Did it to kill darkspawn."

"Right." Alistair turned next to Wynne. "Are you up for it?"

She arched a brow. "What are you implying?"

"Nothing! Do you have your things together? Potions? Gear?"

Moving to stand beside him, she let her staff rap hard against his boot. "You are not making any implications about my age, then?"

"Me? I would never!"

She laughed.

"Shale?"

"No."

Alistair blinked. "What do you mean 'no?'"

"Has It repaired the control rod?"

"I-I left it behind. I didn't think I'd—"

"Good." The golem nodded. "Then It should not be surprised."

"So that's it? Just 'no?'"

"I suppose this is free will. I quite like the sound of it, actually. No. _No._" She moved to stand behind Sten as Wynne lay a hand on Alistair's arm. "But do have fun storming the castle."

"But I need a four—"

It came trotting from amidst the wreckage, startling the soldiers as it passed. Stopping before Alistair, the mabari deposited a large and horned helmet at his feet.

"One of their vanguard." Sten crouched, turning the helm over so that it seemed to be staring up at them. Looking to the dog, he bowed his head. "You are a true warrior and worthy of respect."

Squatting down beside them, Alistair turned the thing away. "Oh! Ew! It's head's still in there!"

The mabari gave a happy bark.

"Right." Alistair stood. "Then… I guess this is it."

Wynne smiled up at him. "So it would seem. But whatever happens, know that I am proud to stand beside you, proud to call you friend."

"Friend, huh? So you haven't just stuck around for my rugged good looks?"

"Be careful who you flirt with, young man. You would not know what to do with me if you had me."

"Somehow I really, really believe that."

"C'mon, Warden." Elbowing Alistair in the ribs, Oghren drew his axe. "Let's show 'em our hearts… and then show 'em theirs."

* * *

"Maker, Maker, Maker…!" Alistair darted cross the market, diving beneath an overturned merchant stall. He had narrowly avoided a crushing swipe from one of the three – _three!_ – ogres that had seemed to appear out of nowhere.

Oghren crouched beside him. "Much as you go on about that Maker of yours, I've never seen him turn up to lend a hand."

"You never know. And how's it any different that you talking about the Stone?"

The dwarf groped on the ground beside them. Finding a small rock, he hurled it at the nearest ogre, chuckling as it turned with a roar.

"Okay… point. But that doesn't necessarily—" The ogre was barreling toward them now. Alistair reached for his sword, eyes going wide as he spotted it across the square. He must have dropped it in his haste to—

"Heh. Swingin' an empty scabbard, are ya? Yer pike was purloined?"

"Oghren! This is not the time!"

The ogre crashed into the cluster of stalls, becoming tangled in the canopy as they rolled aside. Alistair found himself landing hard beside an overturned chest, the familiar wares toppling out into the dirt. He snatched up a short sword just as the ogre's hand closed hard around his waist.

The pain was crushing, burning, the creature's roar splattering his face with heat and bile. With a desperate cry, Alistair plunged the sword deep into its chest, gasping as the hilt broke off in his hand. "What the—? Fine dwarven crafts my – aaaah!"

The ogre's grip tightened, the cry below him seeming to ring in his ears.

"'ey! Warden!" Oghren tossed Alistair's own blade up to him.

He caught it easily, guiding the momentum to bring it round and through the creature's neck. The cut was clean, deep, the ogre slumping immediately beneath him. Alistair's legs buckled he landed but he righted himself, giving Cousland's sword a reassuring squeeze. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it. Throwin' yer weapon around like that only gets a man in trouble." He grinned. "Though I'm thinkin' you learned that back in Redcliff, eh?"

"Oghren!"

More of Eamon's soldiers had followed them, spreading out across the market now to finish off the last of the remaining darkspawn. But there were still more shouts ahead, a thick pillar of smoke spiraling up and over the alienage. Looking to Wynne and the mabari, Alistair plunged ahead.

He stopped short on the bridge, gaping up at the sight before him. "No, oh no…"

The great tree was completely engulfed in flame, the tendrils licking across the thick and ancient trunk to spark in the leaves above. He almost didn't hear the shouts, see the elves struggling to hold their old and splintered gate. Part of it was already burning, the darkspawn tearing at it where the wood was weakest, but it was holding still.

There was a mage among the creatures, sending fireball after fireball over the barricade and toward the tree with a hissing laugh. It hadn't noticed them yet, none of them had. Alistair slipped behind it, driving his blade up and through its chest as the other darkspawn turned. There would be no more fire, but they might well be too late.

A fresh hail of arrows streaked from behind the gate as the elves perched on the platforms above renewed their efforts. Caught between the barricade and Alistair's companions, the darkspawn assault was over quickly enough. But as he approached the gate, Alistair found those arrows trained on him.

"It's him, you morons! _Move!_" There was a scuffle behind the bars, the gate opening just wide enough to reveal a familiar, scowling face. "Let them in."

"But, Shianni—!"

"I suppose he attacked those darkspawn just to trick us, hmm?"

"Maybe." The response was sullen, the elf that had spoken slinking away as Alistair and the others slipped through the gate.

Pulling it to behind them, Shianni folded her arms. "It's about time. But, then again, we weren't exactly expecting any help."

"Um… you're welcome?"

She sighed. "Andraste's ass, you'd think I'd learn some social graces. What I meant to say was… thank you. Really."

Alistair smirked. "Don't mention it."

Many of the other elves had left their positions, running to form a hasty bucket line and douse the tree. But it stretched too high, the flames curling out of reach. Wynne made as if to follow, but Shianni grabbed her arm.

"Don't." It flickered in her eyes, her expression hardening as she watched the others scurry at its base. "Maybe… maybe it's better this way."

"Nonsense." The old mage shrugged her off, a frost spell already spinning between her fingers as she strode across the clearing.

"Shouldn't you be with your daughter anyway?" Alistair stood beside her, but still her gaze was locked to the tree.

"She's fine. The very young and the very old made it to safety." Turning to look up at him, she noticed Oghren and the mabari. "Where is your funny friend? The elf?"

"Ah. He's… he's dead."

"Oh."

Together they stood in silence, watching as Wynne's magic at last quenched the flames.

"So why didn't you go with your daughter?"

Shianni sighed. "Would it have mattered if we had nothing to come back to? This may be all we have, but it's ours."

"And yet you'd be willing to let it burn?"

"I don't know… maybe." The damage had already been done; the trunk was scarred and blackened, the leaves no more than ash. "But that… _that_ was an old thing. We can't go back. We're not Dalish… but maybe it's time we started figuring out what we are."

Alistair found himself smiling. "So… no more tree?"

Her eyes followed the length of it. "How does the saying go? Only in the alienage would we plant a reminder of our heritage and then proceed to get drunk and piss on it."

"I can't imagine… I mean you haven't… have you?"

Looking sideways at him, she winked. "Shows what you know, _shem_."

"So… what now?"

"We have things under control here, thanks to you. I'm sure you've got something important to do, something… kingly."

Alistair groaned. "You heard about that?"

"We do have ears, you know." She smirked. "But go. Really. This is our home and we'll defend it."

"Are you sure?"

"What? You think one person needs to fight every battle?"

"Seems like it sometimes. Like it's what I was meant to do."

She snorted. "I don't buy it. Maybe the reason you're here is to show others _how_ to fight. To inspire, to help, to—"

"Provide witty remarks?"

"I don't know. Maybe." She shrugged, tilting her head to look up at him. "So go. We're fine here."

"Right." Alistair ran a hand through his hair. "You… you take care."

"You too… Your Majesty."

He sighed, but already she was pulling the gate aside and ushering them through. They had barely made it halfway across the bridge when he felt it again, the thundering surge, as if his very blood were trying to escape his veins. Beside him, he saw Oghren stagger, saw the rushing shadow sweeping toward them over his shoulder.

Alistair pulled him down just in time, laying flat on the stones as the archdemon swooped low across the bridge. Wynne had made it to the shelter of the market gate but the mabari was on its feet still, leaping and barking in the wake of the dragon's beating wings. Grabbing the dog by the scruff of its neck, Alistair yanked it down beside them. "I thought you were supposed to be smart."

It gave a piteous whine.

The archdemon banked above them now, the roar rumbling deep as it swept low for a second pass. Scooting closer, the mabari sunk its teeth into Alistair's arm.

"Ow! Ow, ow, ow!"

Again it was on its feet, jaws clenched hard despite his struggling, thick legs tensing as it dragged him cross the stones. Alistair was dimly aware of the dragon's jaws cracking in a blast of blackened flame, of his other hand closing hard round Oghren's collar to pull the dwarf after them. The bridge erupted at their feet, cracking in two where they had lay.

"Maker."

The dog released him, raising its head to growl as the dragon swept away over the city walls.

"Did you have to take the whole arm?" Still he sat cradling it as the mabari nuzzled impatiently against his shoulder. "Right. Let's get… out of the open."

Oghren was already sprinting to join Wynne beneath the shadow of the gate. "Told ya about all that sky! 'S dangerous!"

* * *

Unslinging her bow, Leliana turned from the tower's edge. She had seen the bridge to the alienage crumble, watched as the tiny figures seemed to escape unharmed. They had disappeared from view then, that fleeting glimpse bringing more trepidation than relief. But now… now she must focus.

Riordan had chosen their vantage well, she and the handful of Dalish elves taking up positions at every angle above the city. The archdemon had passed close once or twice but seemed to be paying them little mind. It swooped now above the walls of the market district, coming round for another pass.

"Steady! Steady! Aim for the wings!"

The old Warden moved among them as they loosed again, scowling as the arrows struck the beast's hide with little effect. Leliana knew that look, that frustration at his own helplessness. And yet he would not let it slow them down.

Riordan shook his head as she spared him a nod, moving to stand beside her. "It is not enough."

"But we must try."

He held her eyes above a tired smile. "Yes. We must give Alistair his chance. It _must_ be enough."

She smiled with him. "I know."

Drawing a dagger from his belt, Riordan placed it between his teeth, unsheathing his sword with his one remaining arm. She realized too late as he stepped to the tower's edge, understood only as she saw the archdemon speeding toward them, crying out as he leapt into the open air.

"No!" Leliana dropped to her knees but he landed just below her, the archdemon barreling skyward, thrashing for the man clutching desperately to its back.

The elves scattered, but she could not take her eyes away. No longer could she see the sword, his hand gripping instead to the ridges of its neck, the dagger still held tight between his teeth as he pulled himself toward its wings. One good slice across the muscle, only one… Again the dragon banked, rolling full circle. Riordan seemed to hang suspended, his missing arm stretching useless, before plummeting out of sight.

Leliana couldn't bring herself to look, instead turning from the edge and pinching shut her eyes. It hadn't been enough. It _had_ to be enough.

The archdemon let out a roar, circling them again as the elves unleashed a fresh barrage of arrows. No, not enough.

Leliana whirled, dropping her bow as she drew her blades. With a final cry, she spread wide her arms, launching herself out and over the edge.

* * *

"Riordan!" Alistair stumbled, gaping up at the tower. There had been no mistaking that figure, the only one desperate… fool enough…

Something bumped him hard in the shoulder, spinning him round as he brought his blade distractedly down upon its head. The fighting was thick here, the palace district crowded with dwarves and elves and men. But the darkspawn were pushing back, the archdemon's roar of triumph seeming to renew their efforts.

Alistair turned, trying desperately to see where Riordan had fallen, but there was no hope; it was too high, too… He stopped dead. The dragon had turned again, its course set on the tower, on the figure standing outlined against the darkening sky. Her hair streamed brilliant in the rushing air, the force of it seeming to lift her as she dove, a plummeting streak of red disappearing between its wings.

"_Leliana!_" Alistair fell to his knees, unable to take his eyes away. Someone grabbed him by the arm, shouting close to his ear, but he could not understand the words.

A genlock stumbled near, sword swinging for him in a wide arc. It was only when Oghren darted in front of him, parrying the blow with a shuddering clang, that the world seemed to reach him. Sound returned, crashing loud and wavering as Alistair gulped for air. Wynne had him by the shoulder, pulling him forcibly to his feet.

"No! No, we have to—!"

But she was looking past him, eyes going wide. Turning, Alistair followed her gaze.

The archdemon circled, careening wildly around the tower. One of its wings dipped low, flapping awkwardly as it let out an ear-splitting shriek. Around them, the darkspawn stopped to stare skyward, echoing the cry. Oghren took the opportunity to cleave the arm from the nearest hurlock, but Alistair's eyes remained fixed on the figure clinging to the broken wing, sliding perilously toward its edge. Bucking still, the dragon made for Fort Drakon, crashing hard into the roof in a shower of stone and ash.

"Come on!" He thrust his blade almost blindly, clearing a path. "We're going! Now!" There was a gate ahead, the fort looming above them. Rallying to his call, the soldiers surged ahead, overwhelming the still-disoriented darkspawn.

When they crossed beneath the arch, though, Alistair stopped. It was quiet here. The ramp leading to the doors was littered with them, men and darkspawn, dwarves and elves and unnamed beasts. All were still; all were dead. It gave even the darkspawn behind them pause, most turning and fleeing back toward the palace.

"What-what happened here?"

Oghren shrugged. "Beats me. Makes our job easier, though. Might be we finally got a bit of luck."

"Luck. Right."

Picking their way over the fallen, they slipped through the open door. There were more bodies here, the walls slick with something he did not care to look at long. Wynne, though, crouched unafraid beside one of the fallen soldiers.

"I do not like this. The wounds are… well, they are not exactly wounds."

"Meaning what?"

"Magic, perhaps. I do not know."

"Whose magic? Ours or theirs?"

She rose slowly, sighing as she shook her head.

"Great." He looked to Oghren. "You were saying something about luck?"

They pressed deeper into the fortress, some of the men splitting off to search when the path forked. There had to be some sort of access to the roof, to the upper levels, but Alistair had not seen it. They did not have time for this… if Leliana was still… if the archdemon…

The path had started to become familiar when first he heard the voice. At first he thought it might be one of the dwarves marching behind them, a quiet humming, the tune jaunty and out-of-place. Alistair had almost turned to shush them when he realized that it was coming from the rooms ahead.

One of the dwarves chuckled. "My mam used to sing that to me. Ain't heard it in a long time."

"You recognize it?"

He nodded. "You best wait here, Your Majesty. Let me take a look." Disappearing round the door, they heard him laugh with surprise. "'ey! You there!"

Alistair did not have the words for what came next. He barely recognized the sound as a scream, swelling and rising until it seemed to tear the air itself. The other dwarves did not hesitate, charging into the room after the first. Wynne cried out a warning too late, throwing up her hands as Alistair stumbled into her shield. But the dwarves were not so lucky.

Alistair's hand trembled as he raised it to his face, as he wiped away the blood splattered there. They had seemed to rip apart before his eyes, falling limp and twisted as towels wrung empty. It was when he opened his eyes, though, that he truly gaped.

The song continued, the figure at the room's center rocking where it sat. It did not seem to mind the blood pooling round it, did not seem to notice the darkspawn scattered to every side. Raising its head, the little dwarf smiled.

"Maker's breath, I _know_ him." He lay a hand against Wynne's shield. "Let me through. It- it's alright."

Oghren snorted.

"No… trust me. It's okay."

She acquiesced with a sigh, following him hesitantly into the room.

"Um… hi." Alistair waved, moving slowly to crouch before the boy.

He tilted his head. "Hello."

Wynne looked between them. "And how do you know him, exactly?"

"We… we met on the road. Near Lothering. His father – or I think it was his father – was killed."

The boy's hand snaked out, grabbing the tip of Alistair's sword. A pale glow seemed to snake along the length of it, stopping just short of the hilt with a sizzling crackle. Alistair touched an experimental finger to the blade, pulling back with a hiss. "Ow! It's cold!"

The dwarf grinned.

Wynne's fascination seemed to overcome her fear as she knelt beside them. "I… do not believe it. Perhaps exposure to Lyrium or…"

Oghren snorted. "Dwarves can't do magic. Everyone knows that."

There was a scuffle behind them at the door. Alistair saw the boy's head snap up, turning too late to… "No! Don't—!" A pair of Redcliff soldiers collapsed beside the dwarves.

Wynne shook her head. "It seems we know now what cleared our path."

"He did this? _All_ of this?"

She sighed. "But he cannot tell friend from foe."

Resting elbows on his knees, Alistair hung his head. "Of course not. Why would he? No one ever showed him how." Slowly, he raised his eyes. "Could you… do something?" He winced. "Make him… tranquil?"

"Tranquil." She turned her face away, coming stiffly to her feet. "Yes. But… leave us for a moment."

"Are you sure that's a—?"

"Alistair, please. Leave."

He watched her over his shoulder as they made their way to the door. Kneeling again beside the dwarf, she offered him a comforting smile. He did not seem to notice the hand reaching into her belt, slipping free the blade as the others disappeared.

Looking up at her, the boy grinned. "Enchantment?"

* * *

Wynne did not speak again as they made their way through the silent halls, climbing the stairs to the fortress' upper levels. Stepping round the body of a fallen ogre, Alistair paused before a pair of thick and ornate doors. Maybe it was the taint, the sense of what was on the other side but this… this was it. So many had reminded him of what he had accomplished, praised him, encouraged him, but this… stepping cross this final threshold would be the hardest thing that he had ever done.

Oghren stopped to look up at him. "Well?"

Alistair sighed.

"Heh. Take yer moment, boy. You've earned it."

"My moment. Right. Just so you know, I'm not making another speech."

Wynne stepped to his other side. "The time for speeches has passed. But I would not say no to a rousing battle cry."

Pushing ahead of them, the mabari gave a happy bark.

Alistair smiled. "That's as good as any."

They swung wide the doors, stepping out onto the rooftop together. Others had reached it before them, the varied armies of Ferelden already clashing with the darkspawn that had been called to defend their master. It hulked at the roof's farthest end, beating its broken wing as it leaned low to spit a gout of black flame.

But it wasn't to the archdemon that Alistair looked. Leliana lay not far from it, face down and twisted on the broken stones. He was running without thought, darting quick between the pitched battles, swinging wild with his sword. Almost… he was almost there…

It slammed hard into his shoulders, talons catching beneath his spaulders. Alistair struggled, his boots scraping cross the rooftop as the creature gained height. Twisting, he found himself looking up at a feathered belly, the wings of the great eagle beating to either side of him.

"No! No swooping! Not now!"

Leliana was fading behind them, the bird's speed picking up as they neared the roof's edge.

"No!" Alistair tugged the short knife free of his belt, stabbing blindly upward. He hit the ground hard, rolling aside as the eagle fell and thrashed beside him. Its scream grew ragged, familiar, before cutting short.

"Oh, Maker…"

Morrigan lay where they had fallen, naked and human and frighteningly still. The knife fell from Alistair's hands, the blood smearing cross his breastplate as he tried desperately to wipe them clean. The trembling seemed to start in his boots, moving to his knees and shoulders as he wailed.

Looking between her and Leliana, he spotted his fallen sword. He rushed for it with a cry, passing Oghren as he drove his axe into an ogre's knees. It was already falling, but Alistair dove forward, brining his sword round to push it over on top of the dwarf. By his curses he was largely unharmed, but the creature had pinned him fast.

Stepping round Alistair looked down at him.

"Warden! Warden, help me up!"

He shook his head.

"No! Oh no, you stupid, soddin'—"

But Alistair was already moving cross the roof, his eyes fixed on the only thing that mattered. The only thing that _could_ matter. He had proven that, hadn't he?

He hadn't seen the elf, stepping through the dust to stand beyond the archdemon. Tall and dark and lean, he moved with an easy grace, unslinging the bow from his back as he braced a foot against a crumbling crenellation. Fitting the arrow to the string, he took his aim, turning to Alistair with a silent nod.

Behind him she moved, coming to stand at his side. Another elf, but she was pale, unmarked, seeming to shine radiant above her dark and unstained robes. Her hands flowed easy above her head, working their intricate forms as the air whirled cool around them. Looking to Alistair, she smiled.

Between them stepped a dwarf, his armor fine and thick and gleaming. Unsheathing the broadsword from his back, he took up his position at the woman's other side, leaning the blade against the stone as he ran fingers through his neat and flowing beard. He inclined his head slowly, straightening proud and stiff as his lips twitched.

Another man mounted the ramp, coming to stand on the opposite side of the beast. His robes were much like the elf's, marking them both as apprentices of the Circle. Nodding once to her, he turned to Alistair with a knowing grin. Raising his hands above his head, he too worked the forms, the strange currents arcing overhead to mix and crackle amongst the woman's.

The archdemon stirred now, turning round, bending its neck with a low and rumbling roar. It saw. It knew. They were ringing it round.

Another dwarf came to stand beside the mage. Her leathers were worn, the tattoos on her face twitching with her eager smirk, a wicked glint in her eye. Twin daggers twirled restless in her hands, knees bending as she stared hungrily toward the beast. Looking his way, she raised one of the blades to her forehead in a strange sort of salute.

Close to him another moved, taking up the position immediately to his right. Her dress was long and white, pale and snowy blossoms woven through her long, golden hair. But there was a scowl there, her elven beauty marred. As she looked to Alistair it softened, sad eyes holding his for a long and wondering moment. Turning to the beast, she sneered.

They had surrounded it, the archdemon tensing now. Only the space to his left remained empty.

The man stepped from behind him, running a hand through his long, dark hair. His armor, sword and shield were old, but well-tended and proudly borne. There was an ease to his smile, a comfortable familiarity. As he turned to the archdemon, his grin broadened.

"Are you ready?"

Alistair looked to the strangers, strangers he knew now as well as he knew himself. With a smile of his own he nodded.

"Alistair!" The voice came from somewhere behind him, familiar, exasperated… but distant now.

As the man raised the familiar sword, Alistair mirrored him, dashing forward on burning, screaming legs. The others came rushing from all sides, seeming to leave misting trails in their wake. Ice crystallized along the dragon's hide, the dwarf's sword taking it behind the ankle, the elf's arrows flying. The female dwarf plunged her daggers deep, using them to pull herself up onto the thrashing tail, while the white-clad elf spun sideways to dodge a gout of blackened flame.

The man at his side fell to his knees, sliding forward, blade raised high to tear along the beast's neck. Alistair moved with him, the stroke cutting deep, threatening to jerk his arm away. But they slipped aside as it fell, the archdemon collapsing bleeding on the stones. Still it twitched; still it was not over. They stood around him now, coming slowly to their feet, coming to stand at his side. Even as he closed his eyes, he could feel them; even as he closed his eyes, he knew. With a cry, he raised his sword before him, the light breaking as he plunged it home.


	36. Epilogue

It came in fits and starts, the softness of the pillows beneath him, the echo of voices moving forward and away. There was a smell now, more than ash, a taste that brought moisture to his tongue. He could feel it now, feel it as he had never felt it before. Alistair was thirsty.

He sat with a gasp, the sudden rush setting his head to reeling. He couldn't see for the light, that blinding whiteness. But slowly, shakingly, Alistair opened his eyes.

There was a shout somewhere beside him, the sound of running footsteps. It was a long moment before he could comprehend the words.

"He's awake! The king is awake!"

That, at last, sparked memory. Alistair groaned.

There was weight not on the bed beside him, a familiar, smiling face.

"W-Wynne?"

She sniffed, her eyes growing moist.

"Are-are we dead?"

Laughing, she threw her arms around him, pulling him into a surprisingly painful hug.

"Ow. Okay, ow."

She pulled away but her eyes drifted sideways, unfocused.

"Wynne?" He cupped her cheek, turning her face to his.

"Ah." She chuckled. "You caused quite the light show."

"You… you're blind?"

"Whatever you're implying, Alistair Theirin, don't think that you can take advantage of—"

"You stupid, soddin' bastard." Oghren stood in the doorway, arms folded beneath a spreading grin.

"Oghren!"

He approached the bed with tottering steps, swallowing a belch as he stroked his beard. "Droppin' an ogre on me. I outta show you the bottom of my boot for that one."

Alistair smiled.

"Hmm. It seems It is not quite so easy to crush as I expected." Shale filled the doorway entirely, barely leaving space for Sten to squeeze through at her side.

"It seems you owe me a gem."

The golem snorted.

"Wait, you _bet_ on my… my _survival_?"

Sten smirked.

"Right. Great. Why am I even surprised?"

But the room had grown silent, even Wynne turning her eyes away.

Alistair blinked. "Wait…" He swallowed hard. "Where's… where's the mabari?"

Oghren chuckled, the sound too forced, too relieved. "Oh, he's been around. Seen 'im skulking in the gardens. He's given quite a few of the guards a fright, but they've never been able to catch him."

"And… Morrigan?"

"Morrigan?" Wynne glanced up.

"She… she was there. In the end. On the roof. She… she was an eagle… I think I…"

The old mage sighed. "We found no sign of her. All of the…" She winced. "Everything has been cleared away."

"Everything." Alistair hung his head.

He felt the hand on his knee, but suddenly the image wavered, blurring.

"I am sorry. She… she did what she felt she must."

Gone. Leliana was gone and he lived. He should ask why, how that was even possible. It was supposed to take _him_, only him, not anyone else. Alistair found himself reaching then, past the slithering veil of the taint, reaching for something… anything…

Raising his eyes, he gasped. "They-they're _gone_."

"Alistair?"

Again he reached, waiting for that sense, that certainty. Nothing. There was nothing. His head whipped round, taking in every corner of the room as if expecting to find them there. Aedan, Kallian, Natia, Theron, Duran, Neria, Daylen… They had been there, hadn't they? They had been with him always, with him at the end.

"Alistair?"

Finally… at last… he understood.

"They're gone."

_

* * *

When Wynne at last deemed him well enough to leave  
his bed, Alistair returned to the top of Fort Drakon.  
There, beneath the crumbled ruins of a fallen wall, he  
found a single, golden feather. He entrusted it to the  
strange hound, fastening it (with some difficulty and a  
great deal of cajoling) to the mabari's collar. Leaning  
low, he whispered in its ear, watching as it turned and  
fled the city._

_A woman matching Morrigan's description was seen  
from time to time, moving north through the frozen wilds.  
Some reports mention a great beast, ever at her heels._

_During the rebuilding of Denerim, a number of corpses  
were discovered in a back alley well. Their armor and  
weapons marked them as Antivan Crows, but the bodies  
were never identified._

_After some weeks in the king's court, Sten deemed him  
'not entirely incapable' and made arrangements to return  
home. The journey was delayed by a number of days,  
however, when Sten took it upon himself to show Alistair  
how the Qunari honor their heroes. The palace spent quite  
a bit of gold making amends to local merchants and  
barkeeps._

_Shale accompanied Sten when he returned to Par Vollen.  
She promised to crush Alistair's head when the Qunari  
returned to conquer Ferelden._

_Oghren was given charge of Amaranthine, overseeing the  
rebuilding of the Grey Wardens at Vigil's Keep. The king  
kept a close eye on him at first, warning recruits that there  
were worse things one could drink than a little blood._

_Wynne became a fixture at court, turning down the position  
of First Enchanter to continue what she winkingly called  
'the quiet life.' She seemed to adjust quickly to her blindness,  
making a game of leaving candies in her belt pouches and  
daring the children of the palace servants to sneak near  
enough to take them._

_Arl Eamon remained in Denerim, leaving Bann Teagan in  
charge of Redcliff. After less than a year under his tutelage,  
Alistair became suspicious of his influence and sought  
advice from the only other person he knew. His frequent  
trips to the prison tower did not go unnoticed and few were  
surprised when he announced his engagement to Anora Mac  
Tir some months later._

_Yet not a morning passed that the king could not be seen  
making the long journey to the top of the tower at the city's  
center. There he would stand, surveying him kingdom – though  
others guessed that there was more vigil there than pride. He  
planted roses at the tower's base, the trellis growing taller every  
year. It was said that they never withered, that one day they  
would grow to reach the sky._

_When Alistair's son Duncan was born he commissioned seven  
figurines, leaving the carver with very specific instructions.  
Ever did they rest beside the boy's head: three elves, two dwarves  
and two men._

_

* * *

_

* * *

_(Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who has read and commented! Each and every one of you is ridiculously awesome!)  
_


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